


Equilibrium

by maiaide



Category: Arashi (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, M/M, Romance, Samurai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23921923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maiaide/pseuds/maiaide
Summary: Equilibrium:n. an equal balance between any powers or influences; a state of mental or emotional balance.A reluctant samurai fights for love and home as life teeters on the brink of a civil war.Set in the Warring States/Sengoku period in feudal Japan (1467-1615) featuring samurai, castles and lots of angst and fluff.
Relationships: Aiba Masaki/Sakurai Sho, Ninomiya Kazunari/Ohno Satoshi
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted May 2008-March 2009 on Livejournal.
> 
> Rated for later chapters.

Sho exhaled. He closed his eyes and finally let his body feel the tension and strain of the four-day journey. A member of the household staff had brought his luggage - a solitary canvas bag - to his quarters and arranged it beside the low rosewood table. On the dark lacquered surface, a fine ceramic tea service was prepared for his arrival. Sho pulled at the ties holding his armour in place, removing the weighty pieces and set them on the tatami mats beside his bag. Sho's body groaned with fatigue as he crawled onto the futon laid out in the middle of the room. The porcelain basin of warm water steamed gently beside the vanity, untouched.

He was vaulted from dreamless sleep by the sound of breaking ceramics, spilling water and hushed swearing. He sat up and searched under his pillow for his sword that wasn't there. He remembered being relinquished of his arms upon entering the castle that evening. The head of the household staff told him it was meant as a sign of trust to the daimyo. Sho hadn't really minded; he had never gotten used to being armed constantly. As his eyes adjusted to the pre-dawn light, he saw a person knelt on the tatami picking up the largest pieces of what used to be the white porcelain basin, mopping up the ice cold water with the apron they wore. 

"Who are you?" Sho asked, voice croaking slightly with misuse and exhaustion. The person startled and bowed low, chocolate brown hair fanning out across the mats. Fine hands pressed to the mats, index fingers only just touching, in a well practiced motion. Sho noted the prayer beads encircling their left wrist.

"Please excuse my interruption, I am so terribly sorry to have woken you." 

"Ah, no. It's fine... but can I ask... what you are doing in my room?" Sho could feel his cheeks burn at being addressed so formally. The person rose gracefully from the waist, fingertips ghosting across the tatami, kneeling in seiza. As they sat up Sho could finally see that it was a man, no older than himself. He sat demurely, eyes downcast. Sho relaxed, realizing that he was a chamber attendant. 

"I was refreshing the water in your basin so it would be warm when you awoke but..." He reached for the broken shards of basin and held them with the front of his apron. "I am so sorry; I will bring a new one right away." Before Sho could protest, the largest pieces had been gathered up in his apron and he was gone, sliding the paneled door closed behind him. Sho crawled into his futon and his eyes drifted closed again. The last thing he heard was the tinkle of porcelain. 

When Sho next awoke, the sun was high. Bright clear light filtered through the paper screens shuttering the windows, casting soft glow into his quarters. No longer dizzy with exhaustion, he could properly observe his surroundings. His room was a modest eight tatami mats, sparsely furnished with a rosewood kotatsu table, a long tansu chest along the eastern wall under windows and a stand specially made for armour. He saw a white basin perched on a tall cedar stand in the corner of the room with a linen towel draped over opening of the basin. The closet doors were painted with a bamboo grove in high summer, lush with green shoots that looked real enough to sway in the breeze. Whoever had replaced the broken basin had also placed his armour on its stand and left a tray with a light meal on the kotatsu.

Sho tucked into his breakfast and replayed his arrival at Iwatsuki Castle. He remembered standing in front of the Black Gate, frozen in fear and awe. He had taken several deep breaths and re-adjusted his father's - no, _his_ \- armour. He recalled looking at the large oak doors, stained with black with resin, decorated with large metal rings. When open, the gate would be wide enough for two carts to pass through side by side. The immensity of the structure had made Sho feel that much smaller. He approached the doors and knocked; a gruff voice asked for identification and a statement of purpose. Sho had fumbled with his pack and dug out a lacquered tube containing his family's registration papers. The guard opened a door inset in the large gate that Sho had failed to take notice of. The guard had examined the papers stamped with the provincial seal and then stepped aside to allow Sho passage. 

He had been greeted in the main entry by a well-dressed, middle-aged man who had introduced himself as Matsumoto, the head of household affairs. Two steps behind him stood his son, a young man introduced as Jun. Sho remembered handing over his family's sword for safe-keeping. Matsumoto-san apologized profusely on behalf of the daimyo who had already retired for the evening, but they had not been expecting a visit from the Sakurai family. Similarly, Sho made profound apologies for arriving unannounced and produced a letter addressed to the daimyo penned by his father from his deathbed. After stumbling through another round of flowery formalities, Sho had been lead blindly by candlelight to a guest house in the north-east corner of the castle grounds by Matsumoto's son. They exchanged pleasantries and small talk, but walked largely in silence. Yet, Sho had been left with an impression of kindness.

Sho looked up as he heard the rustle of fabric and footsteps in the hallway outside his room.

“Excuse me, please pardon the intrusion.” The paneled door slid open, revealing the young Matsumoto kneeling in the hallway. He wore a simple black robe tied with a grey obi. Stamped on the front of each shoulder was a small family crest, a wreath of pine, in white. “Good morning, Sakurai-san. I hope you slept well.”

“Good morning, Matsumoto-san.” Sho ducked his head in greeting. “Um, if you count being woken up at some ungodly hour by a stranger in your room ‘a good sleep’… then yes, I did.”

The young Matsumoto sighed, biting back a grin and shook his head lightly. “I have to apologize for that. Aiba-san… well, he is a bit clumsy, to say the least, but means no harm by it. And please, just call me Jun; Matsumoto-san is my father. You don’t need to pay me such respects.”

“A-alright. Jun.” Sho smiled briefly but dipped his head again.

“I see you’ve eaten. The bath is free if you would like, before this morning's meeting. I’m sure you would like to clean up after your journey.”

“... Meeting?”

“Yes, I was sent to tell you that the daimyo requests your presence at this morning’s conference. It is his last before he returns to the capital and he would like to meet you.” Jun stifled a chuckle as Sho paled.

***

After bathing and donning fresh clothes, Jun accompanied Sho back to the keep. All of the buildings were linked by wooden covered walkways. The central courtyard contained the towering keep, the daimyo’s palace and main residence. A second courtyard surrounded the first, where a minor palace housing the daimyo's chief retainers was built. A third courtyard, where the guest house was located, stood adjacent. Surrounding the castle was a lily pond that doubled as a moat; the grounds were littered with small gardens and cherry and plum trees. Situated on the top of a hill, the white tiered castle was afforded a view of the clusters of houses and farmers’ fields that made up the castle town.

Jun lead the way up the wooden staircase in the centre of the keep, climbing to the third floor. The landing opened onto one large room that encompassed the entire floor with a high ceiling. Latticed windows looked out to all four directions, showcasing the azure sky and the land below. Sho held his breath as he stepped towards a western facing window; surely, people were not meant to be this high off the ground. 

A large heavy table strewn with maps and charts stood in the southern half of the room; in the northern half were three rows of narrow overcrowded bookcases. Standing around the table were a dozen men. 

"Sho-kun?" Sho turned towards the sound of the astonished voice. A smile broke across his face in recognition, the first since his arrival at Iwatsuki.

"Satoshi-san!" The shorter man approached and they embraced like brothers. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing. I haven't seen you in..."

"Far too long." 

"Ahem. Ahem!" A throat was cleared loudly in their direction. Sho flushed brightly; Ohno ducked his head sheepishly. "I hate to break up your little reunion, touching though it is, but I am in the middle of conducting a meeting." Robed in purple, the man who spoke commanded the attention of the entire room from his seat at the head of the large wooden table. Jun stepped forward from behind Sho, having been momentarily forgotten on the landing.

"Kimura-sama, as you requested: Sakurai Sho-san." Realizing his place, Sho bowed low hurriedly.

"Thank you, Jun. That will be all." The daimyo waved vaguely in Jun's direction, dismissing him. "I received your father's letter, Sakurai, and I'm sorry to hear about his death. He was a great statesman." Sho stood up straight at being addressed, but kept his eyes cast to the floor. 

"Thank you, sir." 

"Come. Join us." Ohno nudged Sho in the direction of the table. A large map of the entire province was laid out with little flags of red and white. Sho saw the name of his village in delicate calligraphy in the north-west. 

The men gathered were all samurai from across the province, sworn to the service of the daimyo. They were being briefed on the current civil uprisings and political uncertainties, making preparations to maintain order while Kimura returned to Kyoto for his year of required attendance at the Imperial court. 

"I trust you all will keep things running smoothly in my absence. Now, I suppose some introductions are in order." Sho tried his best to memorize which name went with which stubbled face: Nakai, Kusanagi, Inagaki and Katori, from the north, would be joining Kimura in the capital as members of his military attaché while the rest remained. Morita and Nagano came from the east, Okada and Miyake from the west, and Yamaguchi from the south. Nagase, the daimyo's second-in-command, hailed from the provincial capital. "And you already know Ohno-san, through some strange twist of fate." 

"Yes, we were conscripted for military training together." Ohno said as he glanced at Sho and offered a small smile. 

"In that case, you can be the one to get him acquainted with things around here."

"Yes, sir."

"He will be staying with us for a while." It was a statement, not a question.

***

As it turned out, Ohno resided in the same guest house as Sho. He had come to the castle to pay respects to the daimyo five years ago and never left. Ohno's father had transferred his title and power to his son after the completion of Ohno's military training. His father returned to being a simple – albeit considerably wealthy – farmer, hoping his son would find some direction and purpose with his newfound responsibilities. Kimura warmly welcomed the green samurai, installed him in the guest wing and kept him comfortable. They had been living in peace for the last several years so Ohno was idle much of the time. Any required tactical planning and civil suppression was handled by the older samurai who had been in Kimura’s service longer. Unable to leave until being formally relieved from Kimura's service, Ohno filled his days with physical exercise and aesthetics.

They were all dismissed from the daimyo’s presence until the midday meal. Normally, each were free to eat in their quarters but Kimura’s annual departure to and return from the capital were met with certain pomp and circumstance.

The formal dining hall in the main palace was set with twelve lacquered trays, arranged in a horseshoe. When they were all seated, with Kimura in the centre, speeches and toasts were given for safe journeys and prosperity. Attendants moved about the room in silence carrying dish after dish, keeping tea cups full. Sho watched the maids retreat as the last of the dishes were set on the trays before them. Matsumoto-san sat behind Kimura, hawk-like gaze watching and anticipating anything that may be required. Beside him sat Jun; beside Jun were two others. Before Sho could observe them properly, the daimyo started to speak.

“Thank you all for the warm send-off, as always. This time, I have decided to accept Matsumoto-san’s offer to come with me to Kyoto to oversee my affairs in the capital. Jun will take over here, making sure things keep running smoothly. I’m sure he will have no problems.” Matsumoto-san looked every bit the proud father; Jun bowed deeply in deference to his superiors asking for their continued favour and guidance. A sharp movement caught Sho’s attention: the slight man with short dark hair seated beside Jun jabbed an elbow into the side of the man beside him who had now his hands clamped firmly over his mouth. Long, chocolate hair fluttered as his shoulders shuddered with the strain if trying to suppress laughter. Sho cocked his head to the side, eyes flicking between the daimyo and the two beside Jun, wondering what could be so funny.

Kimura sent the elder Matsumoto to prepare the last of the luggage while he left with Jun to discuss some last minute household matters. The man with short dark hair stood – not before glaring at his companion – and began removing empty china and trays as the men of the attaché retired to tend to their own last minute arrangements. The other took a deep breath and pursed his lips, finally stifling the urge to giggle. Dark robes whispered across the tatami as the two circulated, working silently to return the room to its previous unused state. Sho and Ohno were the last to leave, following Nagase and Yamaguchi.

They met the slight dark haired man just outside the dinning hall. He had clear eyes, a mole on his chin and two on his cheek.

“Nino, I’d like you meet an old friend of mine. This is Sakurai Sho.”

“It is an honour to meet you. I am Ninomiya Kazunari, but everyone calls me Nino.” Nino bowed. “I am a member of the household staff so if you require anything, please do not hesitate to ask.” Sho noticed Nino’s black robe, almost identical to Jun’s.

“Thank you, I will.”

“I wish I could talk more, but I must return to work.” He smiled softly at Ohno, who responded in kind. “I just don’t trust Aiba-san with Kimura-sama’s fine china after the incident this morning.” Sho wrinkled his brow. Aiba… why was that name so familiar?

Having been trained to navigate the hallways of the castle in silence, neither Ohno nor Sho heard the footsteps approaching as they turned away from the dining hall. Sho rounded the corner at the same time as one of the household staff clearing dishes away from the dining hall.

The sharp crack of porcelain echoed in the empty hallway. The clatter of a lacquered tray reverberated against the floorboards.

Sho jumped back as a bowl exploded on the floor, sending ceramic shards and grains of rice in all directions.

"Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” As his shock abated, Sho dropped to his knees, collecting broken pieces of bowl in his hand. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Apologies spilled over lips with such formality, Sho almost couldn’t understand them. His head was bowed so low, Sho could only see the crown of silky brown hair. A gasp and more tinkling of porcelain; Sho saw him clutch his hand and bring his finger to his lips, bright red with blood. Prayer beads clicked as he moved his wrist.

“Ah! It’s you!” Sho’s outburst caused the other man’s head to jerk up. Bright, playful eyes blinked with confusion, looking straight into Sho’s. “You broke the basin in my room this morning.”


	2. Chapter 2

Aiba Masaki did not have a childhood. Ever since he could remember, he had worked. He had never thought of himself as more than a commodity. 

The year his mother fell pregnant, there was a drought and crops failed to seed. What should have been a happy occasion was met with anxiety and despair. His father was a low-entry government official in Kazusa Province and loved his wife; he sacrificed promotion and stability for the love of his wife and unborn child, damning his family to poverty, by refusing to move to the capital. 

He was a faceless figure in Masaki’s memory, working constantly for the needed money to support his family but his transgression against the state made it impossible to achieve. His mother tended a small vegetable garden that produced very little and produced even less worth selling. As soon as he was old enough to be of use, his mother had him helping in the garden and running errands for a few coins. To say they had a miserable existence was generous. 

It was a time when mortality and fatality were often one and the same: most babies died before their milk teeth came in. The gift that women prayed for was his mother’s curse: she fell pregnant a second time and delivered another healthy boy that lived. Masaki wanted to work hard so that his brother would never have to. 

It was customary to celebrate a son’s seventh birthday because if a boy lived to the age of seven, it was likely he would reach adulthood. Masaki’s seventh birthday came and went like any other day. That was the day his mother started to look at him with _those_ eyes, but it took him years before he would be able to find a name for it: contempt. That was also the day his parents started speaking in hushed whispers, heads close together, plotting the future of their children. 

A few weeks after his seventh birthday had passed, a man dressed in clothes finer than anything in the Aiba household came to their home. Their house had only one room so Masaki sat in the corner, witness to the sale of him and his brother. Perhaps he should have acted differently; he sat in the corner, hugging his knees in silence. Maybe he should have screamed; maybe he should have thrown a tantrum; maybe he should have shed a tear. But how could he feel loss for this kind of life? He didn’t know where he was going or who he was going to, but he knew that it had to be better than this. The only thing concerning Masaki’s heart was who would look after his little brother when he left.

Masaki left that home with the man in fine clothes in a horse-drawn cart. He went without complaint, doing the most for his family the only way he could. He turned and looked at his parents, the people who he had worked for with all this little boy heart because he knew that it was supposed to be the right thing to do. He felt a tightness in his chest and finally, overdue tears slid down his dirty face, as he watched his house disappear under the horizon. 

The journey took six days. The man tried to make small talk but Masaki’s attention was mostly occupied by the passing countryside. Masaki gazed in awe as they passed the bay; the child had never seen the ocean before. The wonderment on his face was enough to make the man stop and take Masaki by the hand to the shore. Going from one form of servitude to another, it was the least he could do for the boy. 

Green-tiled roofs and white-washed stone walls rose above the budding hamlet as they descended into the valley below Iwatsuki Castle on the morning of the sixth day. Golden statues on top of the keep glinted in the sunlight. They passed through the Black Gate with no inquiry. Standing in front of large, simple wooden house – Masaki would soon learn this was the staff residence and to call it home – was a refined man dressed in a black robe bearing a pine wreath crest. 

“Kitagawa-san, we’ve been expecting you. Was the trip pleasant?”

“Ah, Matsumoto-san. Yes, it was and thankfully uneventful.”

“Thank you for going all they way to Kazusa on such short notice.”

“Ah, think nothing of it. It’s the closest province to the south and I have always enjoyed travelling through its countryside.” Masaki alighted and bowed an awkward, sincere bow to his traveling companion. “Take care of yourself, boy.” Grabbing his bundle of meagre belongings, Masaki turned and faced his new life.

He had joined the Matsumoto household and the service of the daimyo. Matsumoto-san was to be addressed as nothing but “Sir” and rattled off a thousand _thou shalt not_ ’s in an accent that Masaki found hard to follow. He was to be seen, not heard; he was to do as he was told, before he was told to do it. He was to be the first to rise and chores were to be completed before the midday meal. The afternoon would be filled with lessons in letters, arithmetic and history. 

That first day was spent adding the boy to the household registry and organizing and creating records. There was so much to absorb. And he wanted to absorb it all. His unnourished mind and spirit blossomed. Masaki was eager to meet the expectations set before him and equally determined to exceed them. That first week was a blur in his memory of strain, soreness, ridicule and exhaustion. His seven-year-old body was not accustomed to such physical exertion, nor had he been reprimanded and punished so much before. Matsumoto-san demanded nothing short of perfection from all of his staff, even the young ones. It was not long before he began to forget life before the castle.

Masaki was not the only child in the Matsumoto household and that made things bearable. He shared a room with a boy named Ninomiya Kazunari who was younger than him in years but treated Masaki with the kindness of an older brother. Kazunari had been brought to Iwatsuki Castle after his fifth summer. His parents maintained a pair of shrines in the southwest, near the provincial capital, but wanted more for their son than asceticism could provide. Unlike Masaki, who left home with a sense of duty, Kazunari fought. He swore, thrashed and lashed out with all the power a five year old possessed. He spent his first week screaming through bitter tears until he collapsed from the stress of maintaining such anger. 

Kazunari soon made a name for himself among the staff and retainers as a mischief maker. When lessons ended, they were allowed to play until the evening meal and Kazunari often used his free time to set traps for his teachers and play tricks on his seniors. When Masaki arrived, he was excited to have someone who he could play pranks with. Quite often, the target of their tricks was Matsumoto-san’s son.

The third child in the household was Matsumoto-san’s son Jun. Masaki and Kazunari were in the care of the Matsumoto house: they were not formally adopted and did not carry the Matsumoto name nor bear its crest. Jun was Matsomoto-san’s pride, his only son and second child. The year Jun took his first step, the province had been struck by a plague that took his mother and older sister. From his son, Matsumoto-san required more than perfection. Jun was to be groomed and moulded to continue the family’s service to the daimyo when the time came for his father to retire. 

The boys were instructed, according to the samurai moral code: in frugality, loyalty, honour, and the Confucian classics. But only Jun devoted himself entirely to his studies. The desire to please his father spurred him into poring over the tenets of _bushido_ , the way of the warrior, while Masaki and Kazunari spent their afternoons hiding spiders in the maids’ futons. He came to understand that his father wanted to be rewarded for providing perfect service to the daimyo and elevate the family’s status above that of mere servants. Jun would eventually resolve to achieve his father’s dream; he had not yet thought of one of his own.

***

While little Kazunari helped Masaki adjust to the physicality of castle life, Jun aided him with his academics. Never had Masaki held a brush or a book; he could neither write nor read. When he held both objects in his hands gingerly for the first time, a look of shocked awe crossed his face to think that he could be given such a gift. Jun could not help but watch tenderly as Masaki ground ink for the first time, smudging black marks on this nose and chin, copying out row upon row of wobbly _kana_. Starting two years later than the other two, Jun coached Masaki in writing and reading in the evenings when the elder boy wasn’t chasing fireflies in the gardens. 

In addition to training the mind, Matsumoto-san had the boys trained in the art of jujutsu. The three sparred in the daimyo’s dojo, personally trained by Kimura’s senior samurai; their instructors changed constantly to prevent them from becoming lazy and docile. Initially, Masaki spent more time lying on the mats than standing on them, being thrown to the ground often by Kazunari and Jun. But as they grew older, his eventual height worked to his advantage. 

Working together, studying together, training together, playing together: it wasn't long until the boys became as close as brothers.

A decade passed. Ten years of training and refinement were ingrained in Masaki’s every movement, every breath, but time could not rid him of his occasional clumsiness. He had grown to be the tallest of the trio, elegant and lithe. He’d always been skinny; the years spend in this natal home underfed had left his cheeks hallow but he never seemed to be able to gain weight, no matter how large his appetite. 

Kazunari hit his growth spur first, but also reached his full height shortly thereafter. Although he towered over Jun in adolescence, the tables were quickly turned, Jun winning several prized centimetres in adulthood. True to his nature, Kazunari had learned to work with quick efficiency, wanting to complete the task at hand in as little time as possible. When he was sixteen, Nagase presented him with a shamisen that a visitor had left behind. Kazunari devoted endless hours to plucking the strings, pulling out notes until they sounded right and later, when he found confidence with the instrument, composing. 

Jun, awkward and chubby, became regal and refined. He was talented, tasteful and had cultivated an appreciation for calligraphy. He was gradually given more responsibilities, outfitting him with the skills to take over as the head of the household staff when the time came. He thrived in his position of leadership, glowing with pride and self-assurance. He was fair and honest, exerting his authority over his friends rarely, if ever. 

They became seniors in their own right, as Matsumoto-san hired younger members into the household while their elders retired from service. Every couple of years, Kitagawa-san would return with another young boy rescued from a life of tragedy that would be trained and guided to serve the daimyo. 

The year Masaki turned twenty-four, Kitagawa-san arrived with a letter. The letter was addressed to him, only by first name. The letter was from his parents. 

Masaki clutched the thin envelope in his hands, staring at the two characters of his name. He sat on the veranda that stretched around the staff residence, long legs folded underneath him, staring at the scratchy brushstrokes. Kazunari came to sit beside him, legs dangling off the wooden terrace. They sat in comfortable silence until he noticed Masaki’s hands shaking slightly.

"Do you hate them?” Masaki’s voice wavered, thinking of his own parents.

“I did. I did for a long time.”

“When did you stop?”

"I’m not sure. Maybe when I realized that they did what they had to for me. They made a choice. Maybe it was their only one, but they made it. Life is about choices.”

“Do you remember them?”

Kazunari was silent for a moment before shaking his head. “No.” 

“I do, sometimes,” Masaki whispered.

“Do you ever miss them?”

Masaki’s hands gripped the letter tighter, tension apparent in the folds of the paper. “I… I do. When I don’t want to, I do. I want to be angry at them. I want to hate them for not loving me. They’ve never tried to reach me before. Why now?” Angry spots of colour bloomed on his cheeks.

“They did love you. You know they did. But if they showed it, it would have been that much harder to send you away. They might not have been able to let you go.” 

Masaki took a deep breath and carefully broke the wax seal and pulled out the single sheet of rice paper. He unfolded it carefully and read. 

_Masaki,_

_If you are reading this, I’m sorry. This is my final penance; I’m making my peace before I die. But I doubt I will make it to Paradise after what your mother and I did._

_Your brother… he was supposed to follow you. We knew you could take care of him but after you left, he fell ill with fever. He died before Kitagawa-san could come back for him. Your mother died last winter. It’s my fault; she miscarried. You should have had a sister._

_I didn’t have the heart to tell you._

_I’m sorry for everything._

_Father_

Masaki bowed his head; his long fringe hid his face. Tears dripped onto the page, causing the ink to bleed. He sat hunched over the crumpled letter crying partly out of obligation, but mostly out of pain. Something inside, long buried and forgotten, was broken. 

That night Jun crawled into Masaki’s futon, offering warmth and support. Jun knew he wouldn’t – couldn’t – be able to fully understand; Iwatsuki Castle had always been his home. He could only be within reach when his friend needed him most. 

With Jun at his back, hand splayed between his shoulder blades, heavy and _there_ , Masaki fell into a restless sleep. Kazunari laid his futon beside Masaki's, reaching out to lace their fingers together, anchoring the older man to something real and warm. Masaki had always had nightmares, especially when he was upset. 

When Masaki awoke, they were still there. He felt tired and his eyes were dry and sore from crying but he felt at peace. He squeezed Kazunari’s hand, causing the younger man to move closer, touching his cold nose to their entwined fingers. He took a deep breath and relaxed into his pillow. Jun was still beside him, behind him, around him; his hand had moved from Masaki’s shoulder to his waist during the night. He felt content: he had mourned the loss of something he never really had in the first place and awoke to the realization that _this_ was his family.


	3. Chapter 3

Ohno Satoshi had settled for almost everything in his life. He was glad to do what made other people happy – his father, his mother – and that made him content enough. 

The members of Satoshi’s family were farmers, first and foremost. Satoshi’s great-grandfather came to inherit several large fields from his sire, a day’s walk from the provincial capital of Fuchu. When Kimura’s predecessor incorporated the land the Ohno family lived on into his domain, he requested their service in return for the right to control it. The patriarch of the family had never had any military training and could not bear to break ties with his beloved soil so Satoshi’s grandfather became the first samurai in the family at the tender age of eighteen, sent to serve in the castle by his father.

Satoshi had grown up with a cultivated love of the land. As a child, he spent hours chasing mice through the fields with his elder sister and helped in the fields after his lessons, working side-by-side with his father. The Ohno family employed neighbouring farmers to work their land and Satoshi’s father tilled the soil with them. He did not think of them as employer and employees – they were all farmers and all felt an affinity for the land and its ability to produce. Satoshi’s father, like his grandfather before him, could not keep himself away from the fields.

Satoshi made a passable attempt at academics, but when his father decided to begin his education in jujutsu—the way of softness—Satoshi put his energy into training and practice. It almost became a problem with his tutors when his eyes would become glassy, staring at nothing, imagining how he would dance across the mats in the afternoon.

When Satoshi joined his father in the fields, he loved the warm embrace of the summer sun on his skin, the gentle kiss of the cool breeze weaving through the plants and trees; it was Paradise on Earth. But Satoshi was not like his father: this could not make him happy forever.

The spring following his eighteenth birthday, he walked to the capital to enlist for his mandatory military training. Standing at the gate of their modest house was his mother with tears clinging to her lashes. His mother was overwhelmed by the sense of loss that accompanies children leaving home. That same year, his sister was to be married and would move to her husband’s home near the coast. 

The first year passed without incident. He had been assigned to a training ground adjacent to Kokubun-ji, the provincial temple in the capital. Originally a small post town, along the Koshu Highway that connected Kyoto in the west with Edo in the east, Fuchu had grown into a small seat of cultural activity, catering to the whims of politicians and government officials. 

Days were filled with intensive physical exercises; he was taught weaponry and found a particular finesse with a bow and arrow. At sunset, they convened at the main hall of the temple to meditate. The ceiling of the hall was elaborately painted with serene images of the Western Paradise that reflected in the golden face of the Buddha on the altar. Satoshi was so intrigued by the images on the ceiling that often found himself victim of the head monk’s icy glare.

During his second year, on a particularly humid early summer day, he met Sakurai Sho. 

Sho’s father was a magistrate near the north-western border of Musashi Province who had been granted a position close to his home and family as a reward for serving the previous daimyo in the Imperial Court. His father was a respected samurai in the region, and his mother was an equally respected samurai wife. She instructed a staff of eight and oversaw the education of her three children while performing her wifely duties with ease. Sho was the eldest child; four years separated him from his sister, and thirteen from his brother. His bushido education started early; he learned quickly about loyalty to loved ones, respect for elders and the duty to teach. 

Sho was a naturally inquisitive child. He could not wait to begin learning to write. He spent hours in his father's library, a small boy with a round face, lying on the tatami with a book before he could even read; he turned the pages with amazing delicacy for a four-year-old, drinking in the pictures, penning the story in his head. When he was older, he would entertain his brother and sister by reading to them the stories he had made up when he was young.

Sho traveled two days to the capital with his father in their horse-drawn cart when the time for his military training arrived. His father beamed as Sho stamped their family name in red ink on the page of the registry book. He tried not to look like the embarrassed teenager he was, but with every senior officer they met that his father knew, the rosy tint on Sho's cheeks deepened.

Satoshi met Sho during his first week of training as opponents in the dojo. Sho had studied jujutsu, as all boys of the samurai class did, but from a rather academic standpoint. He had read books on form and technique but his learning had rarely been put into practice, with his father being occupied by court business and his brother much too young to spar. 

Where Satoshi seemed to float across the mats, Sho’s movements were stiff and uncoordinated. The practice of jujutsu was to disarm an enemy without weaponry by using the attacker’s energy against them. The more Satoshi pinned Sho and held him in a lock or threw him to the ground, the more frustrated he became and the harder he attacked. 

“I—I think we should stop there,” Satoshi said, almost timidly. Sho was flat on his back on the tatami, his hakama bunched around his legs, severely wrinkled from lying on the floor. Sho closed his eyes and took deep, even breaths. His face was flushed with frustration and exhaustion; his brows had been creased for so long, Satoshi wondered if it might become permanent. “Come on.”

Sho opened his eyes and saw a hand outstretched above him. Satoshi looked at him hesitantly, expecting to have his hand slapped away. One last deep breath and Sho let Satoshi pull him to his feet. “Thank you, for helping me. I’ve never been good at this kind of thing.”

The older boy smiled. “It’s alright. You were kind of starting to get it, until you lost your concentration. That will only work against you.”

“Apparently,” Sho replied, a wry smile playing on his lips. 

“How do you feel about a drink? I think you deserve one.”

“I would like that,” Sho said, ducking his head in gratitude. 

They spent the night at a local teahouse with a cheap bottle of sake and rich conversation before being kicked out by the owner near dawn, pouring themselves into Sho's futon as the sun came up. All new recruits slept in a large common room on the first floor of the dormitory while their seniors graduated to smaller rooms on the second floor. Satoshi couldn't think about stairs without suddenly feeling dizzy and Sho didn't have the heart to make him sleep on the naked tatami. 

Their friendship continued along much the same path for the next two years. They taught together, sparred together and drank together. Satoshi would buy a bottle or three after a long, frustrating day and Sho would keep enough sense to make sure Satoshi didn't hurt himself or end up in a senior officer's chamber.

When Satoshi returned home after his three years of training, his father made quick arrangements to see him sent to serve the daimyo in his stead; his father had long wanted to relinquish his samurai title so he could oversee his fields without interruption. As a filial son, Satoshi could not refuse. He hadn’t even bothered to unpack his belongings before setting out again. This time, he traveled north to Iwatsuki Castle.

The daimyo was not in residence when Satoshi arrived; it would be six months before the daimyo's year of required attendance in Kyoto was complete. A letter was sent from the Imperial Palace with instructions for Satoshi to remain at the castle, to watch and to learn.

Matsumoto-san had charged Jun to watch over the young samurai and provide him with anything he might desire. This task was entrusted to Jun as the first of many, as Matsumoto-san began to place more trust in his son. He felt a little bit sorry for the youngest samurai at Iwatsuki but his intentions were not altruistic: he hoped that a friendship might form between the two that would come to benefit the Matsumoto family in the future.

Satoshi did come to make a lasting bond with one of Matsumoto’s house, but it wasn’t his son Jun.

***

An informal welcome party was held in Satoshi’s honour, initiated by Nakai and Katori who were merely looking for an excuse to drink to excess. It reminded him of Sho—they had drank together to commemorate the end of his training—but sake was the liquid courage he needed to make an impression on his seniors since Satoshi was a quiet and somewhat reserved person. 

Jun tended to the party, as per his father’s orders, joined by two others. He was the perfect host; everyone was well-fed with cups that never emptied. The taller one—they called him Aiba-chan—was buoyant and bright. He would come and sit by Satoshi when the older man fell silent for too long, though he would not speak to him. Satoshi noticed that all of them only responded to the samurai when they were spoken to. Despite such silence, Aiba had a warm aura that comforted him.

The third boy was silent and innocuous. He weaved between and around the revellers in a dark grey yukata, making empty dishes disappear while other delicacies took their places. Satoshi was aware of his every movement, his eyes following his convoluted path around the room. That was before he heard him play for the first time.

“Nino-kun! Get your shamisen and play something for us!” Yamaguchi sang out, words slurred with alcohol. 

Ninomiya—Nino-kun—retrieved the instrument from his room and arranged himself in front of the samurai. He slipped his left thumb and forefinger through two holes in a band of yellow cotton. The round body of the dō was cradled in his lap as he ran his hand up the long neck, the fingers of his small hand caressing the silk strings. He hit a few notes with the tortoise shell plectrum and turned the pegs at the end of the neck with his left hand, tuning the second and third strings. The change was so fine; Nino must have been the only one to hear it.

Then he began to play. His hands created music from the instrument effortlessly: the slight twist of his right wrist to hit the strings with the plectrum, the way his fingers crawled up and down the neck, hesitating on certain notes to draw out the sound. Nino’s eyes fell closed, his head tilted to the left, a look of peace on his face as he played. It wasn’t a song Satoshi knew, but it was one he would find easy to remember.

After a set of four songs, Nino placed the shamisen beside him and made a bow. When he looked out to the drunken audience before him, Satoshi was watching him intently. Satoshi had never seen or heard anything like that before; it made humbled him to see someone so young play with such skill. He caught sight the blush staining Nino's cheeks as he lowered his eyes to the floor and bowed his head once more. 

Satoshi wanted to say something but all words died on his tongue. Nothing sounded good enough. He couldn’t think of anything strong enough to describe the tingly sensation he felt at the base of his spine every time the Nino’s plectrum struck the strings. For the next three days, whenever he saw the boy, attending at dinner service or whispering past in the halls, he could hear nothing but the vibrating notes of Nino's shamisen and imagine nothing but his look of peaceful intensity.

***

The second time Satoshi heard Nino play was an accident, at first. 

It was late in the afternoon and the air was thick; a thunderstorm was drifting in from the east. He was restless with watching and learning; Nagase paid him little attention when regional tensions were discussed at meetings and Satoshi couldn’t care less. He was no politician and had no desire to become one. He left the stuffiness of the keep and wandered along the pathways of the castle grounds. The only sounds were the drone of the cicadas and the crunch of gravel underfoot.

When Satoshi reached the second courtyard, he came upon a simple building slightly larger than the guesthouse where he slept. The shoji screens to the veranda were open in an attempt to catch a passing breeze. Coming from within the house, he heard a wavering, hesitant note that made his breath stutter. He stepped out of his geta in the genkan, his feet sticking to the floorboards in the humidity. He closed his eyes and trailed his fingertips along the papered walls as he followed the string of notes down the hallway.

Eyes closed, listening his way through the house, he did not see the tall brown-haired figure watching him. He did not see or hear Aiba stop in the hallway, arms full of freshly laundered futon covers taken in before the storm, watching him curiously. There were no rules forbidding samurai in the staff residence; samurai could come and go as they pleased in while staff were restricted in their movements about the castle. 

Satoshi walked to the end of the hall and stopped outside the room Nino shared with Aiba. Their room was at the back of the house with access to the south veranda and a view of the valley below. The door to their room had been left half open, creating a cross draft through the house. Satoshi placed one hand on the door frame while he pressed the palm of the other over his heart. He stood there frozen, gazing into the room, his lips parted slightly. Nino took up the same position every time he played: sat in a delicate seiza on a cushion, just in front of the open veranda doors, looking out to the southern gardens. His silhouette was outlined with hazy, late afternoon sun. 

This was the tableau that captivated the samurai until, “Excuse me!”

Aiba called out in a sing-song voice directly into his ear and stepped around the older man. Satoshi startled, slamming his shoulder into the door frame. Nino’s fingers slipped as his concentration broke, a strangled note coming from the third string. Nino turned and saw Satoshi gaping at him, mouth opened to apologize but no sound coming out. “Sorry, did I interrupt?” Aiba asked playfully.

Nino shot his friend a dirty look and pursed his lips, “No more than usual.”

“I’m just putting away some laundry. What brings you here, Ohno-san?”

“I… ah… got lost,” he finished lamely. 

“Is that so? Well, since you’re here, why don’t you request something? I’m sure Nino wouldn’t mind. Isn’t that right?” Aiba was ignoring the look he was being given and pulled out a cushion and gestured for Satoshi to sit. He would probably find something unpleasant in his futon tonight but it would be worth it. “Well, I’m sure I have something else to do so, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, as he bowed to Satoshi and gave Nino a pointed look that screamed _just play for him,_ before sliding the door shut.

The silence that enveloped the room was heavier than the late summer air. Satoshi fiddled with the hem of his yukata nervously before gathering his thoughts to speak. 

“The way you play… I’ve never heard anything like it before.”

“Thank you, Ohno-san.” Nino bowed his head. “Would you like me to play something?”

“Anything. I just want to watch you.” Satoshi looked to the floor in embarrassment; he hadn’t meant to say that much. He missed the look of surprise that flitted across Nino’s face, and the way his lips curled on one side, before he picked up the plectrum again.

***

Satoshi started to get “lost” on a regular basis. And Nino started getting irritable if he didn’t see Satoshi every few days. Aiba and Jun suspected that Nino wanted to play for Satoshi as much as—if not more than—Satoshi wanted to hear him.

The next time Satoshi heard Nino play, it was a pretext. 

It was a brisk autumn night and a full moon was just beginning its journey across the sky. Aiba shoved Nino out of their room into the hall; Jun pushed Nino’s shamisen into his hands.

“We’ve had enough of your moodiness,” Aiba scolded, perching his hands on his hips.

“But I—,” Nino protested.

“No, enough is enough,” Jun agreed, crossing his arms firmly.

“Go and play and don’t come back ‘til morning.”

Nino knelt outside Satoshi’s room for a quarter of an hour, trying to catch his breath. He had played for Satoshi-san—when he’d started using his first name?—countless times. Why should this one be any different? While Nino had played for him often, it was always Satoshi who came to him. 

Nino finally knocked on the frame of the door and called out before sliding it open. Satoshi looked up from the low table in the centre of the room, light from a candle throwing long shadows across the walls. He smiled softly when his eyes focused on Nino’s face. He put down the brush he was holding, balancing it on the edge of the ink stone.

"Am I interrupting?” Nino asked hesitantly. 

Satoshi shook his head. “I’m just writing a letter to my mother.”

Nino crossed the threshold and closed the door silently as Satoshi pulled a cushion out from the closet for him. He folded his legs beneath him, laying the instrument across his lap with the plectrum tucked neatly underneath the strings. He ran his fingers over the skin of the dō and chewed his bottom lip nervously.

“What is it? Just say it." Satoshi's voice, like his expression, was quiet and tender. 

“I want to play for you,” Nino replied, barely above a whisper. He plucked the strings under his fingers; the hum of three notes hung in the air. Playing for an audience had never been so thrilling until Satoshi came to the castle.

“Is that all?” Satoshi bridged the space between them and reached for the neck of the shamisen. He curled his fingers around the wood and paused; when Nino made no move to stop him, Satoshi laid the instrument on the floor beside them. He then reached for Nino’s left hand, the hand that danced up and down the silken strings, and held it in his own. He turned it over and ran his index finger across the lines charted on Nino’s palm, down the length of each digit, caressing the calloused tips of the first two fingers and thumb. “You know, I’ve always wondered what these hands felt like.”

Nino had no words as Satoshi lifted that hand to his lips. Satoshi searched for his eyes in the dark as he pressed a chaste kiss to the open palm. His rough fingertips caressed Satoshi’s face as lips were pressed to the inside of his wrist. His fingers threaded through the short hair at the nape of Satoshi’s neck and stilled, not sure how they should continue.

“What else do you want?” Satoshi asked with the open expression of a child. He held his breath as he waited for Nino to make his choice.

“I want… this,” Nino said, fingers curling around the hand that held them, punctuating with a squeeze. Satoshi smiled and that was enough. He leaned forward, pulling the samurai closer, the hand on the back of his neck gentle. Nino leaned in slowly and kissed him. 

Nino felt Satoshi’s hand skate up his arm, stealing into the front of his yukata, fingers brushing lightly over his collarbones making him sigh into the kiss. Nino slid his fingers into the samurai's hair, urging him forward, to dip his tongue into Nino’s mouth. The kiss turned hungry and then it wasn't enough; there was so much more to touch. _I want this._

Satoshi responded to Nino's boldness with quiet encouragement, watching the boy take what was laid bare before him. Nino acted on instinct, following the lines of the older boy's body, tasting the velvety skin as he followed with his tongue. He wondered if the curve of his lips could be felt as he smiled when his fingers made Satoshi gasp softly. His skin felt warm as Satoshi followed his movements south with his gaze. Nino settled on the floor between Satoshi's knees and pushed their bunched robes to the side with determination. 

“Wait—I, ah—” Satoshi cupped Nino’s face, halting the work of his lips and tongue. He crawled forward and straddled Satoshi's lap, feeling warm breath across his cheek as the samurai wrapped an arm around his waist. 

“What do _you_ want, Satoshi-san?” he whispered as he brushed Satoshi’s damp fringe off his forehead. The fingers on Nino's waist clenched in the fabric of his yukata and Satoshi moved his hips to bring them flush together. 

Nino felt his stomach pitch at the look on the samurai's face as he traced the contours of Nino's face, committing each line, each curve, each freckle and mole to memory. "You, Kazu.”

Satoshi kept him close as his hands waded through the tangled robes they still wore for the light skin beneath. His fingers left invisible marks on the skin of the round of Nino's hips, the arc of his back, the curve of the insides of his thighs. It was almost too much and yet far from enough. 

Nino sought the samurai's lips again as he pushed his yukata out of the way. Satoshi groaned as he felt the small hand wrap around him again, spreading slick across the heated skin. Nino shifted closer, bringing them chest to chest, holding his breath before slowly lowering onto Satoshi's cock. Satoshi gasped at the tight feeling around him; a small whimper came from Nino.

“Don’t." The hand on Nino's slight waist arrested all movement. "Kazu, if it hurts, don’t.”

"It doesn’t hurt,” Nino replied, shaking his head.

“Don’t lie to me." 

“…just a little. It will pass. Just go slowly.” 

Nino dropped his forehead to Satoshi's shoulder, taking deep shuddering breaths. He sat in Satoshi’s lap, tense, hands clutching the arms tight around his waist. He tried rocked forward, to adjusting to the new feeling, a small breathy moan falling from his lips, but Satoshi held him still. 

"There's no need to rush," Satoshi murmured against his temple. 

Nino felt everything with such clarity: everything focused to pin-points as Satoshi snaked a hand through the fabric bunched around them to take Nino in hand, distracting him as him established their rhythm. His body was wound tight like the strings on his shamisen, each caress and thrust causing vibrations to echo, voicing themselves through Nino in pants and sighs, mewls and moans. Compared to the heat coming off his skin, Satoshi’s breath was cool on his neck where the samurai has his lips pressed. A hint of teeth across his pulse and Nino was coming undone, taking Satoshi with him.

In the afterglow, Nino with his nose buried into the crook of Satoshi’s neck, his hands still tangled in the front of his robe, they remained. They leaned into each other with perfect balance before climbing into the futon, Satoshi’s arms lazily embracing Nino as he nuzzled his cheek against the boy’s dark hair.

When Nino returned to his own room the next morning, he was wearing one of Satoshi’s yukata and displayed a rather telling mark just beneath his left ear. Jun and Aiba were already awake and waiting for him with conspiratorial grins. 

“Don’t say a damn word,” Nino said as he propped his shamisen in the corner.

“We don’t have to,” Aiba giggled.

“This says it all,” Jun said, poking the dark mark on Nino’s skin. 

“What?” Nino’s hand flew to his neck as he scrambled to find a mirror. “That bastard. He’ll pay for this next time.” 

“Oh! So, there’s going to be a ‘next time’?” Aiba flopped down onto his futon, kicking his legs in the air. Nino glared at him in the mirror.

"Shut up.”


	4. Chapter 4

"So that’s Aiba...-chan," said Sho, cocking his head to the side, as he and Ohno sat around the kotatsu in the tea room of the guest house. Sho had tried to help clean up the exploded bowl in the hallway, which he felt equally responsible for, but Nino came up behind them and instructed Ohno to leave and see to the daimyo’s send-off with a well-placed hand on his lower back, and to take Sho with him. The pained look on Aiba's face lingered in Sho's mind: was it because he'd cut himself on broken porcelain, or because he was worried about Kimura-sama's reaction?

"Yes, Aiba-chan is a bit of a walking disaster." 

Sho grinned and nodded. "I know. He was in my room this morning, breaking things."

"I heard about that, from Nino. Kimura-sama was not happy. I think he was a bit irked that he didn't even know you were coming, and then to have one of his staff be a nuisance before the sun even came up? Not really a good first impression."

"Ahh, no," Sho waved his hand in front of him. "No, that was my fault. I didn't send word before... it was just... so sudden. Father usually takes -- took -- care of everything." He looked into the murky green shallows of his lukewarm tea. The earthenware cup swam in his vision as he stared, unfocused.

"What happened? To your father, if you don't mind me asking..." Ohno threw out the question and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the low table. He looked at Sho openly, his features fair and familiar. Sho had always been able to tell him anything, all those years ago. Sho took a deep breath and flicked his eyes up to meet Ohno's before fixing his stare on the pattern in the rosewood tabletop.

"When I finished training, I went home and everything seemed fine. My sister had gotten engaged so my mother was busy putting together a dowry for her and making plans for the wedding. They had only just gotten engaged -- maybe they waited for me to come home before making things official so I would be there for everything; I don't know.

"Anyway, Father, he... started getting sick, then. At first, we thought it was nothing. Just a cough, a cold that was common at the change of seasons. But as the first snow fell, he still wasn't better. That stubborn old man, hadn't called for the doctor after all those months, saying, 'It's just a cold, I'll be better soon.' He had always been a healthy person, so we didn't think we needed to worry. But that's the one reason why we should have." Sho trailed a finger along the grainy surface of the cup as he continued.

"I can't believe we forgot... it just became normal for him to look pale and tired all the time. By the time we noticed he was sick... he had probably already been ill for a long time. He used to visit every family in the village and greet everyone once a week, but then he just... stopped. I should have been the first one to realize." Sho's knuckles were starting to turn white as his grip tightened around the cup.

"Whatever it was that made him sick... it was slow. He had been getting progressively sicker over the years and when he became too sick to leave the house, it was already too late. Father didn't tell anyone but he knew he was dying. He just went about tying up loose ends, settling debts, seeing my sister married, my brother educated. He kept doing his duties as regional magistrate until the day he died. If I wasn't brought up the way I was, I would say he didn't care for any of us.

"I almost wish I wasn't born into this family, into this status, because then I could just be ignorant and hate him for not spending more time with me, with us, before he died. But I was, and I know that he was doing it to maintain his honour, a samurai's most prized possession, treasured more than your family or friends. I..."

Ohno stretched a hand out across the table and laid it over Sho's, coaxing him to continue. "I don't know if I would be able to do that. It just doesn't seem right," Sho whispered the traitorous words. He brought the cup to his lips and took a small sip.

"He didn't teach me enough... I'm not ready for this. I don't know what this title means, what I'm supposed to do." Sho took a deep breath and held it, squeezing his eyes closed. He looked like he was trying to suppress a memory or emotion that weighed too heavily on his soul. It made him look old.

"Now that Father is gone, they only have me. My brother is just a baby, still, and my mother, as strong and respected as she is, is only a woman. If not for the people who looked to my father, I have to do something for my family." 

Ohno sat silently and waited. He waited until Sho settled and opened his eyes. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say but he understood enough the feeling of being unprepared and lost.

"Let Kimura-sama and the rest of them teach you. If you ask them what you want to know, they will tell you," Ohno said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I just didn't care, so I never asked. I wasn't born to be a statesman and can't stand the sight of blood." At that Sho’s lips curled into a half-smile, remembering one particular incident involving Ohno and a kitchen blade that almost cost him a finger, if it hadn't been for the medic, Imai-san.

Ohno stood and went to the hearth embedded in the floor beside the table, over which a cast-iron kettle hung from a chain in the ceiling. His father had not left him to shoulder such immense responsibility that seemed too colossal for just one person to bear, but could understand Sho’s frustration because he himself had his own doubts about the nature of being samurai.

Living on his parent's farm, Ohno was blissfully ignorant of the relative social position of a samurai family, mostly because his father chose to ignore it. During military training, everyone was all of the same class. It was only after moving to Iwatsuki that Ohno noticed. The maids and low servants never looked any of the men in the eyes and remained painfully silent unless requested to speak. The village people bowed to them as they passed or when they came to castle to make a formal request of the daimyo. Such shows of deference made him uncomfortable.

Thankfully, Kimura was a liberal lord, as far as daimyos went. The men in his service had the freedom to come and go as they pleased in and around the castle and hamlet. When Ohno took to spending increasing amounts of his free time with the young men of the household service, Kimura made no protests. The daimyo was no fool; anyone with eyes could see the way his youngest samurai and Ninomiya looked at each other. Such relationships were held in high regard, called the purest form of love by some, untainted by the touch of a woman. A harsher lord would have severed Ohno's bond with Ninomiya early, had the boy been anyone else, but the Matsumoto house held a favoured position, straddling the line between pure servants and a low samurai family.

Not being able to go to Nino and touch him, just the simple act of laying his fingers against a smooth freckled cheek, on the slightest whim was hard enough. The thought of not holding him, stroking him, kissing him, hearing him or his music weighed heavy on his mind and heart; it was his obligation to eventually take a wife and dutifully produce children as a samurai and filial son. This nameless passion that woke to the hesitant notes of the shamisen had become an addiction and Ohno knew he would go on craving it for the rest of his life. 

In a small voice, barely audible over the scraping of the wooden whisk in the earthenware cup, Sho spoke.

"Satoshi?"

"Hmm?"

"Which would you choose?" Ohno's hands stilled, whisk poised over the second cup. "If you had to choose, right now, at this very moment, between loyalty to our daimyo or the people you love and care about, which would it be?"

Ohno took a breath and opened his mouth to respond when the door to the door to the tea room slid open. Nino knelt in the hallway of the guest house and bowed to both young samurai, eyes flicking up to hold Ohno's gaze briefly. The older man looked to the door and his expression brightened softly.

"Ohno-san, Sakurai-san. Nagase-san requests your presence in the conference room right away. He says not to dawdle; it's important."

Nagase stood at the head of the heavy oak table, in Kimura's place, surrounded by the other five samurai when Sho and Ohno arrived at the third floor of the keep. They were speaking in low voices and pointing at the map on the table, moving the little flags from place to place, adding more red and removing more white.

"There have been a series of raids over the last several days in the north: here, here, and here." Morita reported, pointing to three areas across the top of the map, in the hills that created the province's northern border. "The farmers have been getting restless; the spring was dry this year and the yield does not look like it will be promising. Most of whatever they do produce is slated to be sent to the capital as tribute or to the urban centres."

"They have been requesting aid from the magistrates but most lines of communication have been interrupted by militia attacks,” Okada supplied.

“Militia?” Sho inquired as he walked up to the table.

“Discontented peasants from the interior borders have grouped together. I can’t say I blame them,” Okada explained. “It was a particularly harsh winter and the spring was drier than most so food is scarce. Groups from neighboring provinces are encroaching, looking for the same thing. The messages that we have been able to receive from the regional officers are all the same: requests for protection and food stores to be sent. People are starting to go hungry and are getting more frustrated that help isn’t coming. But with Kimura-sama away for the year, we don’t have any help to send.”

“One band has been more aggressive than most, in the north-west,” Morita pointed to a cluster of red flags on the map. Sho paled; they were surrounding his home village. “They have been harassing some of the more remote and smaller townships for food and supplies because their requests have gone unanswered.

"They were being lead by a man by the name of Akanishi Jin but he was fatally wounded in a skirmish with a patrol of imperial guards on their way to the capital. We had hoped to keep this contained within our borders but now word is going to spread to Kimura-sama in Kyoto.”

Sho’s breath caught in his throat. His hand flew out to grab on to something and caught Ohno’s arm. The older man turned to see the distress on his friend’s face, as did the rest.

“Sakurai? What is it?” asked Nagase, concern mildly laced with irritation.

“A—Akanishi Jin is my brother-in-law.”

“What? Why didn’t you inform us?!” Nagase raged.

“Nagase-san, he only arrived yesterday,” said Yamaguchi, placating his superior with logic.

“I—I didn’t know. I had no idea, I swear,” said Sho, swaying slightly.

“In any case, we have to sooth the people somehow. Now that Akanishi is dead, who knows what his comrades will do," Okada pressed.

"He was the son of a samurai family, from the village next to mine. His father had become a monk and renounced violence and death before Kimura-sama became the daimyo. Jin... I don't think he had ever even held a sword..." Sho said, more to explain things to himself than to anyone else. Ohno placed his hand on Sho's shoulder to steady him.

"People will do anything in times of desperation. It's human nature," Yamaguchi reasoned.

"Word travels faster than we would like to admit and people are going to start to panic in the face of violence. Unrest is contagious and it only takes one person to think that the lord of the land isn’t caring for them anymore for the rest to follow,” said Miyake, worry etching a line across his brow.

“But it isn’t the daimyo's fault! He can’t control the weather,” cried Nagase, frustrated at the helpless situation. 

Morita looked around the table and began to push the white flags around again, trying to figure out how to redistribute a military force that was already spread too thin. “That’s what logic tells us, but mob mentality is not logical. I’ll send messengers to the border stations and neighbouring provinces for reports and we’ll go from there.”

Everyone around the table fell silent. All they could do was watch the events unfold from their lofty perch in Iwatsuki's keep.  


***

The youngest samurais walked back to the guest house in silence. Sho hadn’t known about Jin and that caused his chest to tighten with unease but the thought that made his stomach pitch was not of disgrace, disloyalty or dissension: it was despair. What would happen to his sister, who was now a widow? To whom should she show more loyalty to in death: her husband or her father? Who would take care of her now? She was no longer a part of his family, her name having been transferred from the Sakurai register to that of the Akanishi family. He knew nothing of her in-laws or how they treated her. The day before Sho departed for Iwatsuki, they had received news that his sister was pregnant. He could only hope her new family did not turn her out if she bore a girl. He would not be able to help her if they did.

Anxiety gnawed at Sho’s insides, questions ricocheted off each other in his head. The roar of his familial tragedy nearly drowned him. Ohno could see the invisible weight bearing down on his back and shoulders, threatening to drive Sho into the wooden floor. He was a shell; all the light that had been was being buried by doubt and disillusionment. This was nothing like the glamorous life depicted in the epics.

Ohno had no words of comfort. This was all new – he had never dealt with civil unrest nor had he suffered a betrayal such as this. But he knew Sho and the war that was waging itself within him, playing out across his face for all to see. He looked past Sho to the end of the hall and the door to his room and Nino waiting for him. Even if the clear face painted with a worried countenance hadn’t been peaking through the door in the half-light, he would have known he was there.

“I would choose love,” Ohno said, finally, knowing that Sho would understand. He hoped that his answer would help put these recent events into perspective.

Sho stopped mid-step and looked at Ohno with an expression that was a confused mixture of disbelief and awe. He had been pondering his preordained path in life only that same day, but this was as close to an admission of mutiny as one could get without being outright accused of treason. Ohno looked at Sho, down at the floor and then to his room. His face was completely calm, something Sho had never seen on another person before, eyes soft and clear with just the barest of smiles.

“I would choose love, if I had to choose right now, at this very moment. Lords and emperors are powerful beings but they come and go. They’re just empty titles with ever-changing faces. When those in power who are supposed to protect me keep changing, how do I know the next one won’t disappoint me as well? Don’t be mistaken, I am loyal; but I know Kimura-sama personally and he has earned my respect. But when you are calling out for help and your voice never seems to reach ears, you feel helpless. And that is just too much for some to bear.

“But lovers…,” Ohno’s voice lingered and his eyes smiled. “They are special. They are constant. They are tangible. They are someone of my choosing that I trust, and who chose me for no reason other than who I am. Not because of my status or title; not because I was the strongest or the richest or had the most power. Someone like that… I would do everything I possibly could for him without a second thought. Whether they of are your blood or not, whether you chose them or not, family is family and that’s the one of the strongest bonds there is, I think. And I'm sure that's why your brother-in-law did what he did. He did what he thought he had to do.”

The maelstrom in his head calmed and, though he didn’t feel resolve, Sho at least felt clarity. Some of the half-formed emotions had been given shape by Ohno’s words and for that, he was grateful. The knowledge that he wasn’t the only person to question the way of things was a relief.

“I would rather be somewhere without birthright and be happy, than stay shackled to something out of some archaic obligation. If I had the choice.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sho sat on the front veranda of the guest house, staring out into the darkening night. It had been four days since he and Ohno had been called to the keep for the latest report of the churning tide of unrest in the province. It had been four days since he had been granted a view of Ohno that he had never seen before. He had learned so much about Ohno through those few words, more than he had in the whole two years of training together. He had watched Ohno retire to his room, to the boy waiting there for him and as he did everything about Ohno became soft and gentle. Even during their most intense _jujutsu_ practices, Ohno was never aggressive; perhaps he was incapable of such an emotion. But in that moment, which stretched itself over several breaths even for Sho, Ohno embodied serenity.

Silence enveloped Sho as he had stood in the hallway. He was rooted to the floorboards, processing the weight of Ohno’s words. Ohno was not known for his diction but not once during his speech did he stumble: he was sure. Certainty permeated every nuance and cadence of his voice and Sho knew then, absolutely, _‘That’s what I want.’_

Everything suddenly felt so insignificant. His ancestry, his name, his status; they had no more value than the paper they were written on. Nothing about his person set him apart from any other but for the blood pounding through his veins and roaring in his ears. What kind of protection could a family crest that belonged to a samurai name bring? The men who wore them, warriors tried and loyal, were no less warriors without such decoration.

Sho was no warrior. Barely out of training, his skills not yet tested on the field, he felt more confident that he was likely to lose a limb at his own hand than deal the slightest knick to an opponent. What could he provide for his mother and brother when he was at least a four days journey from home? He was not the man his father was, but even his reputation couldn’t have spanned half the province. And yet, Sho could not ignore the incessant feeling winding around him, brushing up against his legs like one of the stray cats from the village, that they didn’t need him. Being the wife of the regional magistrate and a respected woman in her own right, the lady of the Sakurai house had the support and protection of friends and neighbours, as did her youngest son.

_But lovers…_ Ohno’s voice echoed in his head over the drone of the cicadas. _They are special. They are constant. They are tangible._ Sho could not doubt Ohno’s naked honesty and it made Sho wonder if the look of pure, undiluted bliss on Ohno’s face was a symptom of love. But what did that feel like?

Sho jumped at the dull clack of a lacquered tray on the wooden flooring. He had been so immersed, near drowning, in his thoughts over the last four days that he had not taken notice of his surroundings at all. The sounds of life within the house and on the grounds, the constant buzz of insects, were muffled by the intensity of his concentration. He had not left the house since entering with Ohno that day, and only relieved his station on the veranda for the essentials of the washroom and sleep when his body groaned from mental exhaustion. When the pangs of hunger gnawed, bringing him closer to the surface of reality, he would find a tray with food within arms reach, covered by a delicate net of lace.

The sudden clatter of wood on wood broke Sho out of his reverie and he found Aiba kneeling behind him carrying a tray laden with the simple fare of rice balls and tea.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

“I’m sorry?” Aiba asked, leaned forward every so slightly, as if getting closer to Sho’s voice would bring him closer to the meaning of his words.

“The food. It was you, leaving the trays for me.”

Aiba nodded and smiled. It was a small smile but warm in the fading twilight. “The day after Kimura-sama departed for the capital, Jun said you hadn’t been eating. He wanted to come and call you for the evening meal with the others that night but it looked like you didn't want to be disturbed so I offered to bring something to you. I didn’t know when you’d be hungry so I just left it.”

“You could have said something. I just get… wrapped up sometimes. I think too much.”

“I had wanted to say something – they cooked _unagi_ , the chef’s specialty – but I couldn’t. Whatever it was you were thinking about… it was important. It was something you needed to finish.” Aiba lifted his gaze from the floor and Sho saw understanding in his eyes. He seemed to know the gravity of Sho’s internal struggle without being aware of the details; to Aiba, they hadn’t mattered.

“Thank you,” Sho replied. His gratitude came out in a slightly softer, lower, heavier tone, the thanksgiving encompassed more than just food, though he wasn’t exactly sure what.

Sho reached for one of the densely-packed triangles of rice, the grains cool and tacky. He looked back out towards the gardens, now completely dark. The candlelight from the guest house windows illuminated a mere foot from the veranda and not much else. White paper lanterns had been lit throughout the grounds and the hamlet below, flickering like fireflies stuck on black velvet. Aiba relaxed into his habitual _seiza_ slightly behind Sho. He had not asked Aiba to keep him company, but he had not asked him to leave either. Broken tableware not withstanding, when he found himself in Aiba’s presence Sho felt a gentle calm curl around his heart. That nagging stray turned to lick his fingers and toes with something like affection, tickling just enough to be noticed.

"How is your finger?" Sho asked, breaking the comfortable silence.  
"Ah, it's fine. It was only a shallow cut," Aiba replied, clutching the injury with his other hand, wincing slightly.

"Let me see it." Sho turned and slid closer, knocking his knee against Aiba’s, reaching for the bandaged hand.

"It's fine, really!" Aiba protested, but did not resist when Sho began to unwrap the loose linen bandage.He lifted the hand and turned the injured digit into the light.He could see an angry red line bisecting the crease of the first knuckle on the palm-side of Aiba’s index finger.The surrounding skin was pink and puffy; Sho thumbed the cut gingerly, causing his patient to hiss slightly.

“Sorry.Well, it looks like it’s healing nicely,” Sho said, rewrapping the finger effortlessly.He took the end of the linen bandage between his teeth and tore it in half down the middle, tying it around the finger to keep it securely in place.

“Where did you learn that?Have you studied medicine?”

Sho chuckled and shook his head.“No, I haven’t.Not properly, anyway.My younger brother is always getting scrapes and hurting himself but doesn’t want to be scolded by our mother so I am the one to bandage him up.”The thought caused Aiba to smile sadly: if things had been different, he might have been able to do the same for his younger siblings.  
“Keep it clean and dry to avoid infections, especially with the summer humidity,” Sho finished, tugging the knot tight while trying not to jar the finger too much. “I would hate for you to have a scar.”

That low, heavy tone returned to Sho’s voice.He continued to fuss with the bandage despite it being perfect, partly to keep his hands busy, partly to maintain the tiniest thread of contact with the boy beside him.

Aiba caught his bottom lip between his teeth, as he was doted on by Sho, realizing that this was the first time in recent memory, or perhaps ever, that someone had taken such care of him. As Aiba watched, a smile – a happy one – spread across his face and warmth pooled just behind his belly button.

***

The very first assignment Jun received from his father when he was seventeen was a delivery. The daimyo had commissioned a set of plates from a potter who lived far to the south, near the coast. The artist was known throughout the provinces, his name famous even the courts of Kyoto.Each piece he made, even those in a set, was slightly different from its brother. One piece alone was costly, given the reputation of its maker, but a perfect set with all the shades of variation was priceless.Jun had been directed to accompany payment for the dishes and escort the purchase home.

“And you might as well take the other two stooges with you. It’s time to see if Yamada and Chinen have learned anything or if they still insist on being coddled. Aiba was too soft on them.They’ll have to survive while you’re away.Or else.”

Matsumoto-san sent them off in a cart with one horse and Nakai for safety.Only samurai of the upper classes and nobility had the authority to ride; everyone else rode carts or walked. With four men to carry, three nearly full-grown, it was just as fast to walk beside the mare. And with a week’s worth of travel each way, they needed to go easy on her.

For the first two days, Jun sat beside Nakai in the front of the cart, checking the map every few miles and squinting at the passing scenery for landmarks. Aiba and Nino alternated between relaxing in the cart and trailing behind it, wandering off the road when some blur of wildlife caught their eye. On the third day, Nakai pushed Jun off the cart after shouting into the brush for his friends for the third time in as many minutes. He landed on his shoulder, hard, on the dirt road.

“If you care what your friends are doing so much, go find them! I don’t need to go deaf before I’m thirty. Just because I lost at janken and didn’t have a choice but to go on this stupid errand with you brats, doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Nakai screeched down at him as he flicked the reigns. The mare resumed her ease plod, leaving Jun lying in the dust.

As he lay on the side of the road clutching his shoulder that was surely out of place from the fall, Aiba and Nino fell out of a bush just in front of him heaving, leaves and twigs clinging to their hair and clothes.

“What moron would go pet a skunk?” Nino gasped, smacking Aiba on the back of the head. ”You’re lucky the spray was deflected by that tree or I’d have thrown you in that lake we just passed and left you there.”

“Ow! What? It was cute!I’m sure it was just stretching, that’s all.”

Nino stood up straight, staring Aiba in the face, shocked at the newfound level of idiocy his friend had achieved, before walking off to follow the cart that was slowly leaving all three teenagers behind. After a few paces he stopped and turned back. “Where’s Jun?”

“Over here,” bit out the youngest, attempting to sit up without the use of his right arm.

“Why are you lying on the ground, Jun?” Aiba asked innocently, cocking his head to the side.

“Because of you.”

“Us? What did we do? We weren’t even here,” Nino cried, crossing his arms with a pout.

“Exactly. Help me, would you?”

Aiba flounced over to offer Jun a hand, but soon realized the younger man couldn’t lift his arm to grasp it. “What did you do?”

“Nakai pushed me out of the cart. I think my shoulder’s dislocated.” Jun sat holding his arm close to his side with his left hand, trying to keep very still. Aiba pushed Jun back down onto the ground and untied the towel from his head. He nudged Jun’s hand out of the way and padded the armpit with the rolled up towel. Nino sauntered over but offered no help; he stood by, leisurely watching Jun’s face contort in pain as Aiba put his foot in the pit of Jun’s arm, grasped his wrist and leaned back. There was a sickening pop followed by a strangled sigh of relief as the bones slid back into place.

When they caught up with the cart – Nakai had stopped when the trio had fallen from sight and sulked while he waited for them – Aiba fished around his pack.He extracted a large rectangular cloth, his _tenugui_ , white with an indigo circle brushed in the centre. He fashioned a sling by folding opposite corners together and tied it around Jun’s neck.

Until they set up camp for the night in a clearing off of the main road, Aiba stayed at Jun’s side.As they walked, he would gently massage the aggravated muscles in the shoulder and when the air chilled with sunset he kept his warm hand on the younger boy’s shoulder to retain some of its heat. Nino pounced on Jun’s empty seat and provided Nakai with silent company; the samurai muttered obscenities under his breath to himself every now and again, keeping Nino from saying anything.

Jun’s arm was sore, but not as much as his ego; it only stung more when Aiba insisted that he didn’t have the strength to use his own chopsticks when they served dinner around the camp fire. At least Nino had the foresight to pack a few spoons and handed one to Jun before Aiba could start to feed him from his own bowl. Nakai extracted a flask of _sake_ and poured a cup for each of them, and a second for Jun to numb the pain.

“You don’t have to treat me like a child. I’m fine,” Jun muttered into his rice. Nino and Nakai had eaten themselves to sleep, leaving Aiba to wash up, while Jun continued to pick at his food. Not only had his body taken a blow, so had his appetite, leaving nothing to soak up the alcohol in his stomach.

“I’m not, but you need to leave it alone. Your father will probably blame us for what happened if you’re still hurt when we get back. The more rest you give it, the sooner you’ll heal,” Aiba replied.

Jun had never been allowed to depend on others; his father always said, ‘suffering builds character.’ He was trying to reconcile his father’s dogma with the small voice inside telling him that maybe depending on someone wasn’t so bad, if it made you feel so nice, so safe. Through the rice wine haze, Jun watched as Aiba packed up the remainder of their supplies and set off into the brush.

“Where are you going?” Jun whispered after him, as loud as he dared. Waking Nakai would earn him far worse than a dislocated shoulder. He stared into the fire and finished his meal, wondering when he began to feel so warm. Aiba was off in the brush hunting something small, undoubtedly, so that source of heat was gone and he was a good distance from the embers, so that couldn’t be it either.He almost felt too warm; surely it was the _sake_?

After rinsing his bowl with water, Aiba stumbled back through the tall grass with something in his hands.

“Do you remember when we were kids,” he asked, as he settled himself down on his bedroll beside Jun. “When we would go out and catch fireflies in the gardens?”

“Yeah, but you were never very successful. You’re too loud.” Aiba nudged Jun’s good arm with his elbow and made a face.

“Do you remember what colour they were?”

“Weren’t they yellow?”

Aiba huddled closer to Jun and held his cupped hands up to younger boy’s nose. He slowly lifted the hand on top, revealing pair of tiny, vivid green lights that crawled across his palm.

“Where we live,” Aiba explained, “fireflies glow white. But closer to the coast, where we are now, there is a species that glow green. I saw them for the first time last night.” He instructed Jun to hold out his hand – his left – and let one of the lights traverse his long fingers and cross to Jun’s.

“Why doesn’t it fly away?”

“These are females; they can’t fly. I think there must be a lack of females around the castle back home, so that’s why I could never catch any,” Aiba giggled. Jun turned his hand over as the firefly continued to explore it’s new environment. They sat in companionable silence, entertained by the tiny flickering beings in their grasp. Aiba was the first to speak.

“I know you’re upset about your shoulder. I thought these might cheer you up a bit,” Aiba said quietly. Jun let the words marinate between them for a few moments before replying.

“Thank you.”

“I know how your dad is. I grew up there too. Just… let me look after you while I can, okay?” Aiba kept his eyes on the insect navigating his fingers.

Jun continued to watch his own before responding softly, “Okay.”

He definitely felt too warm but he was sure it nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with Aiba.

***

Jun was reminded of that night with the fireflies in the south of the province all those years ago as he too looked out towards the grounds and the hamlet of Iwatsuki below. The rustle of cherry and maple trees harmonized with the shrill of the cicadas amid the onyx night, softly-glowing lanterns swaying gently in the breeze. His room, on the second floor of the staff residence, looked out to the grounds and keep. He looked across the third courtyard to the guest house; he could see one silhouette joined by another. He had watched for four days as the well-being of another, that wasn’t him, occupied Aiba’s thoughts, as he brought food and drink to the young samurai caught up in an internal reverie.

His felt a twinge in his shoulder, a sharp jolt of pain, a phantom injury from that incident with the cart. He watched as Sho unwrapped the bandage from Aiba’s finger and examined the cut; in the grand scheme of things, a minor thing, and they had all known much worse. Jun didn’t need to be close enough to see the blush spreading across Aiba’s smooth cheeks; he knew from the dip of the boy’s head and they way he looked at his knees that it was there.

Sho’s fingers lingered on Aiba’s hand, awkward. Aiba’s fingers curled in the folds of his _yukata_ , unsure. From Jun’s latticed window, he could sense the unnamed tension between them. The knot had been tied with precision and care – even Jun could see that – and yet Sho continued to fix and straighten the linen, eyes never wavering from their redundant task. Aiba kept his demure gaze on the indigo pattern of his _yukata_ and endured – or perhaps relished – the attention.

There was only so much contact Sho could maintain with a meaningless pretext; he pulled the ends of the bandage one last time before placing Aiba’s hand delicately back in its owner’s lap. Aiba smiled a tender, charmed smile at the samurai. Aiba had smiled at Jun countless times: his friend laughed and smiled more than anyone in the castle. But he had never smiled at Jun like that.

In all the years that they had known each other, Aiba’s face had been an open book for Jun to read.Jun knew every facet of his face, every colour of his moods and what truly made him happy.But he had never seen that look before. This was new.And it had nothing to do with Jun.Suddenly not being able to know for himself what Aiba was thinking felt like he had been tossed from the cart all over again, but this time it wasn’t just his shoulder that ached.


	6. Chapter 6

As the wheel of the seasons turned, the equinox passed and the heavy heat of summer settled. A sullen tension had fallen over Iwatsuki castle since the arrival of the first reports of insurgence. And yet, despite the feeling of something malicious lurking over the horizon that wrapped itself around everyone in the castle, Sho alone was considerably bright. He had a newfound resolution to take this fateful opportunity as a prompt to learn so that he might become useful to Nagase and Kimura and, in turn, his family.

He imposed himself on Morita’s regular strategic meetings with Nagase, asking as many questions as he dared when a break in the conversation allowed. He resumed his jujutsu training with Ohno and sought out Nagano for instruction in weaponry. He had inherited his father’s katana but had never been trained with a blade; his father was a pacifist and preferred to have his sons study bloodless forms of defence. He had been relinquished of his arms upon arrival but thought it pertinent to know his way around a sword in case the situation arose.

Sho kept himself occupied and focused on his studies, which brought him joyful satisfaction; but he had never seemed happier once he found the library.

The elder Sakurai had an extensive collection of literature, being the regional magistrate and the head of a fairly wealthy family, but the library at Iwatsuki castle was beyond anything Sho had ever seen. The library was nestled in a minor building in the second courtyard, a narrow one storey structure with the castle’s signature green tiled roof shaded by a large black pine tree beside the lily moat.

It was a particularly stifling day, the air humming with the charge of an oncoming storm, when he first found the library. Sho was strolling through the grounds after the evening meal at a loss for something to do since Ohno had retired early to his room. Sho grinned to himself as he remembered catching the look that passed between the samurai and a certain member of Matsumoto’s staff across the dining room. Ohno would be otherwise engaged until morning.

Following the walkway that traced the perimeter of the courtyard, searching for a refuge from the oppressive atmosphere of late June, Sho found himself in front of the small, discreet building, tucked away from the heat and humidity.

Beyond the _genkan_ were two rooms, one hardwood adjoining one tatami, separated by paper _fusuma_ doors, delicately painted with a pond of blooming lotus flowers. The walls of the hardwood room were lined with bookcases slightly taller than Sho himself. They reached just to the bottom of the windows above, narrow and papered with _shoji_ , letting in enough light to see by but kept the books from damage. In the centre of the room were two half cases, back to back, creating a counter on which more books and scrolls were piled. Where the shelves in the keep contained maps and stratagems and accounts of battles, this library housed literature, history, art and poetry.

On the opposite side of the fusuma was a tatami room that mirrored the library in size and shape. The wall of _shoji_ screens facing the library opened on to the veranda, providing the room with dappled light from the trees outside. The veranda edged the moat, catching breezes scented with pine and lily, shielded from rain and insects by bamboo blinds. The _tokonoma_ , a small raised alcove with a solitary scroll of simple calligraphy hanging within it, spanned one wall of the room, while its opposite was a shallow closet. Save for a stack of cushions in the corner near the door and a long, low table in the centre, the room was empty.

The faint smell of rice paper and ink called to Sho and he found himself making his way to the library whenever he was idle. He read the historical and mythical anthologies, the _Kojiki_ and the _Nihonshoki_ ; he waded through the poetics of the _Man’yoshu_. He laughed at the petty turmoil of Sei Shonagon’s Heian court life; he blushed at the delights of Genji. It never occurred to Sho that he might not be the only person whose fingertips caressed the pages bound by red thread, even when he discovered a brush forgotten on the table.

It was only when he saw another pair of _geta_ in the _genkan_ that he became aware of another’s presence in this sanctuary.

On that day, Sho traversed the damp walkways after a particularly long practice with Nagano as a soft rain fell. He had been working on his technique with _katana_ and the shorter _wakizashi_ , the large and small swords that marked a man as a samurai. His focus had wavered constantly, earning more than a few strikes of the bamboo practice sword, as he wondered what would happen next in _The Tale of the Heike_.

The lone pair of geta in the _genkan_ were non-descript: unfinished paulownia wood with a strap of green cotton -- they gave no indication of the identity of their owner. Sho’s joined them as he quietly traversed the wooden floor, passing the bookcases to the open fusuma. The tatami room was dim, even with the screens to the veranda open wide, but Sho could easily make out a head of hair the colour of barley tea bent over a sheaf of rice paper. He would recognize those beads on that wrist anywhere.

Aiba had reoriented the long table to face the open veranda doors. On his right was a square ink stone, an ink stick balanced on the corner, the well half full with jet liquid. The sleeves of his dark green _yukata_ were pushed up his arms and tucked at the shoulders, giving him a hunched look as he bent at the waist over the table. The paper was angled to the left, the brush in his hand held perpendicular to the surface below as he wrote slowly.

With all that had happened in Sho’s life in recent months that created such an oppressive feeling of helplessness, he been relieved to have found a place of stability amid the unchanging words of the books in the library. While Ohno had Nino, Sho had his books.

Aiba’s presence altered something. The rattle of Nagano’s berating and the flowing script of the Heike in his head quieted as he watched Aiba’s brush crawl across the page. There were no flourishes or embellishments in his form, just words made of ink. In the calm of the room, with the soothing smatter of rain on the moat, Sho watched.

Breathing a long contented sigh, the brush was set down to rest against the ink stone, and the page was held up with both hands; as Aiba blew gently on the wet characters, the light coming in from the veranda behind seemed to lift them off the paper. Sho squinted at the sheet, trying to read the fine print. Aiba set the dry sheet aside and picked up the brush again, dipping it into the ink. As he set the tip of the brush to the paper, Sho finally spoke, curiosity piqued.

“What are you writing?”

Aiba’s hand slipped with a gasp, marring the white surface below, turning mu into an unintelligible squiggle. He stared down at the offending mark and then the sooty smear on the heel of his hand, a distressed groan leaving his lips. Sho winced guiltily at the sound.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Aiba-san,” Sho apologized as he crossed the threshold of the room. The other man turned to see who accompanied him; his scowl melted into a shy smile, white teeth catching his bottom lip.

“Ah, it’s fine. Nothing important was ruined,” Aiba replied, moving the botched page to the other side of the inkwell. Sho knelt on the bare tatami beside him and looked at the stack of writing. Aiba laid the brush against the ink stone.

“Can I see?” Sho’s hand hovered over the small pile of pages filled with script, awaiting permission. Aiba blinked, blushed lightly, and then bobbed his head. Sho regarded both writings and writer with curiosity; had no one ever asked to read his work before?

The style was simple, semi-cursive hiragana neatly arranged one beneath the other down the page. Some pages were dated in the top right corner; today’s was in the seventh month of the fifth year of the reign of Emperor Tensho.

“Is this your journal?”

Aiba titled his head to the side as he spoke. “Yes, and no. When we stopped taking lessons, Jun told me I should keep writing everyday for practice… and it just became habit. I didn’t have anything exciting to write about so I just recorded the day's events. Kimura-sama found me here one day, just like you,” at this his lips turned up in a lopsided smile, his eyes cast up to Sho’s that were trailing up and down the columns of writing. “He saw that I wrote down everything, such as it was, and asked me to keep writing, chronicling life in the castle. I guess I became a record-keeper, of sorts.

That elicited a sound of awe from Sho, a hum that was long and rich and upturned gradually near the end as he kept reading. He picked up a handful of pages and leafed through them, scanning the mundane events of Iwatsuki. Then he paused.

“You don’t write with kanji.”

“I only use a few… I can read a lot more than I can write but I am always reading them wrong. So I don’t. I don’t want to try writing something and have it misunderstood,” the younger man explained.

Sho nodded silently in understanding. He pointed to a combination of seven kana in the middle of a page dated in June.

“This is my name, isn’t it?” Aiba pulled the page closer, his fingers touching the page only a handful of strokes above Sho’s, and confirmed that it was indeed the samurai’s name.

Without uttering a word, Sho laid the pages back on their neat pile and reached across Aiba, his arm brushing the folds of the front of the taller man’s _yukata_ , taking the brush between his thumb and middle fingers. He dipped it in the ink, and angled the pad of clean white pages towards him. His strokes were firm and strong, clean and precise.

“Sakurai-san?” Aiba asked, as he watched in confusion, as the brush touched the pristine surface.

A horizonal line, a vertical, left flow, right flow, two shellfish and a woman: a cherry tree.

Horizontal, horizontal, flow to the left, a vertical to close it: a well.

Dot, dot, three horizontals, a long flow to the left and a pair of feathers: to soar.

After lifting the brush from the last dot, Sho returned the block to its original position in front Aiba. “This is my name.”

“I don’t know if I’ll remember all those strokes…” Aiba looked focused, a slight furrow marring his brow.

“I’ll teach you.” Sho placed the brush in Aiba’s hand, long fingers wrapping around the narrow bamboo. He moved closer, his knee returning to its place alongside Aiba’s. The contact was subtle but warm, as if he had never moved from this spot beside him, from that night on the veranda of the guest house. He leaned close but did not touch; he directed the brush in a hushed voice as he looked over the younger man’s shoulder at the character emerging from the strokes.

A dot, another. Three horizontals, a long flow to the left. A pair of feathers.

Aiba sat back, admiring the character on the page, written for the very first time – the first of many that would come. “But, what about the other two?” he asked.

“You can just use Sho,” he replied softly, light in his voice. His companion looked up, jaw twitching delicately, unsure whether to grin or not, whether he was allowed to or not. He was not even that familiar with Ohno, whom he had known for going on five years and was like a secret older brother. His eyes softened and the crease in his brow smoothed as he tasted the word on his tongue.

“Thank you, …Sho-san.”

“You had better be careful, Aiba-chan.” Neither had heard Jun approach; of Matsumoto’s staff, he above all traversed the castle grounds in absolute silence.

"Jun!" Aiba's head whipped around that the sound of his voice. "How long have—"

“If anyone were to hear you address Sakurai-san as such – with or without his permission – the consequences would be severe.”  
Jun stood in the shadow of the door frame, his posture rigid and cold. Aiba could not see the details of his face, but his tone was enough to know that no smile would be found there. Aiba opened his mouth to reply. No sound came forth but a shallow intake of breath. He bit his bottom lip instead and bowed his head. But he did not make to increase the distance between himself and the samurai.

“And please do not encourage him to do so, Sakurai-san. He must remember his place.”

Sho watched this display of submission and looked towards Jun to address the concern or make some excuse on Aiba’s behalf but Jun began to speak first. His voice was dark; his words were sharp.

“Aiba, you will be responsible for the service of the evening meal tonight. One of the kitchen staff is ill so you will assist the chefs before seeing to the dining hall. An envoy from the border is arriving within the hour.”

Aiba bowed low to the samurai. As was proper etiquette when addressing one of superior status, he placed his hands on the tatami in front of him – and allowed his fingertips to brush the folds of Sho’s robe – bringing his face parallel to the floor. He passed the scowling Jun on his way out of the library, not before throwing an apologetic look over his shoulder.

Sho looked at the sheaf of journal entries on the table, forgotten. He traced the hiragana of his name in Aiba’s handwriting with the tip of his finger. He looked around the library, catching glimpse of The Tale of the Heike on one of the shelves, waiting. He had the library to himself again, and suddenly he felt lonely.


	7. Chapter 7

A pair of messengers returned from the borders with more unsettling news of sedition seeping further inwards, closer to villages and townships. A messenger from Kyoto carrying a letter bearing Kimura’s seal arrived with little more advice than, “You know what needs to be done. Do what you have to.” Being more than a week’s ride away on the fastest steed, the daimyo was at more of a loss as to what to do than Morita, who pored over maps and charts daily. As soon as a report arrived, he would return to the strategy room to rearrange the flags on the map and stare at them as if the new configuration would reveal the answer to the province’s ever increasing problems.

The messengers stayed for three days, resting and restocking their supplies before continuing south to relay the news to the farthest border stations. Jun assigned Aiba to attend to the messengers for the duration of their stay, keeping him occupied and worn out by days’ end. In that moment in the library, with Jun towering in the shadows, Aiba was more afraid of him that he had ever been of Matsumoto-san. For all of his clumsiness and mistakes, there had always been a hint of indulgence in Matsumoto-san’s admonitions; in Jun’s, there was none.

The night the messengers departed, Nino found Jun in his father’s office. An abacus at his left hand, he flicked the beads back and forth, filling the columns of the household accounts with rows of numbers.

“Was that really necessary?” Nino’s voice edged with irritation.

“Was what necessary?” Jun did not look up from the registry on the table.

“You know what I’m talking about. You know he’s been miserable since you yelled at him. And he’s confused and restless because he doesn’t know why.”

“I didn’t yell at him,” Jun stressed, eyes meeting Nino’s. “I firmly reminded him of his boundaries. There are rules that need to be obeyed.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it!” Nino firmed his jaw and stalked towards Jun, keeping the safety of the table between them. “Rules? You didn’t seem to care about rules when it was me. You and Masaki all but threw me at Satoshi.”

“It’s not like you wouldn’t have gone yourself,” Jun replied darkly.

“That’s not the point. You didn’t care then, so why do you care now?” Anger had brought a flush to Nino’s cheeks, but his voice remained threateningly even. “What is this? ‘If I can’t have him, no one can’?”

“No!”

“Then, tell me what it is!”

Jun pursed his lips but made no reply. Nino sighed heavily.

“I already know, Jun.”

“Know what?”

“Don’t play dumb; you’re not Masaki.” Nino sank to the floor on the other side of the table. “I see how you look at him, how you watch him. I’ve seen it for years. And I know it’s more than brotherly because that’s how Satoshi looks at me.”

Jun’s gaze fell to the books before him. He stared at the numbers for a while before speaking, his voice breaking slightly. “But he doesn’t look at me that way.”

“Have you ever told him?” Jun shook his head. “You know as well as I do that subtlety isn’t his strong point.”

“It wouldn’t make a difference if I did, Kazu. He doesn’t feel that way about _me_.” Jun winced as he forced himself to say those words. "I saw them in the library. I stood there and watched. I could feel it, I could almost see it between them."

“You don’t know that for sure. If you really feel so strongly about him, you need to tell him.”

“I can’t… I can’t be that selfish. I can't tell him that I've been waiting for six years -- probably more -- for him to love me the way I want,” Jun whispered, fingers clasping a discarded sheet of paper, turning it into nothing more than a toy for a kitten.

“Love is selfish, Jun.”

“I told myself to just wait. I could wait until I got some sort of answer…”

“But you haven't even asked," Nino stated, logically.

“I hoped… I had hoped that he would realize it by himself, sooner or later. Realize it, and return it but… I guess if it hasn’t happened yet…”

Nino looked at his friend, shoulders hunched, weighed down with helplessness. The three of them had grown up together – there were only a handful of memories between them of the time before they knew each other. Jun had always had a soft spot for Masaki and at one point it turned into something more than familial affection. For Masaki, having the tragic childhood he did, his sibling bonds with the other two were more precious than anything else.

“I didn’t think that he would fall for someone else. I guess that is my answer,” Jun said, pained.

“You need to let go. He deserves to be happy.”

A pause, a sigh, and then, “I know.”

***

Aiba was tangled in his sheets when Nino returned, half in, half on top of his futon, long limbs draped across the mattress and spilling onto the tatami.He was so exhausted from preparing for the messengers’ departure that he hadn’t even bothered to change out of his work clothes. Nino changed into light cotton shorts and a tunic and crawled onto his own futon, blowing out the candle.

“I’m scared, Kazu,” Aiba’s voice wafted across the room, muffled by the pillows surrounding his face. Nino turned his face towards the voice in the dark with a questioning sound. “What’s going to happen? The messengers spoke little but the news they brought was not good. What they didn’t say was even worse.”

Nino sat up and folded his legs beneath him, lacing his fingers in his lap. “We should be fine here,” he replied, his voice lacking conviction.

“For a while,” Aiba supplied, equally disheartened. He pulled himself up on his elbow to look at Nino. “But for how long? How do you know we’ll be alright? No one seems very optimistic about this situation. If Nagase-san is worried…”

_We should be, too._ The words unspoken hung heavily in the air. Aiba got up and opened the screen to the veranda, a draft coming down the hillside ruffling his hair.

“I’ve been listening too,” Nino spoke from his futon. “If the town comes under siege, we are near powerless to stop it and defend the castle at the same time. We have already sent Okada and Miyake out two days’ ride from here and by the time word reached them, the grounds would have already been razed. Kimura-sama might as well not exist right now; he is absent and exiled from us in the capital.He said as much in his last missive: we are on our own.

“You’ve seen Morita wearing a hole in the floor of the keep with his pacing. He hardly leaves it – he takes his meals there and sleeps on the cold floor, if he even sleeps at all.The ratio of red to white flags is ever increasing on that map; it’s like a pool of blood seeping towards us, crawling closer each day.” Nino stood and joined the older man looking out to the darkened grounds.

“But if something does happen to us, I know Satoshi will be there,” Nino said softly, heat rising in his cheeks. “He wouldn’t let anything happen to me – to us.”

Aiba responded with a sniffle. Nino looked at his friend and found tracks of wetness reflecting the moonlight.

“Masaki? Why are you crying?”

“What is going to happen to the castle? This is my home! I’ve already lost one; I don’t want to lose another.”

“Stupid!” Nino slung his arm around tall shoulders and pulled his friend into a rough hug. “Why are you so materialistic? ‘Home’ is where your heart is and as long as you have people who care about you and look after your silly head, you’ll be happy.”

Aiba laughed sadly through his tears and returned Nino’s hug properly. After a few moments, Nino tried to pull away, but was held tighter in Aiba’s arms.

“It’s not just the castle, Kazu,” Aiba said into Nino’s shoulder. “What’s going to happen to us all? It feels like everything is about to fall apart.”

Nino looked at the ceiling and chewed the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know.”

They stood there in their room clinging to each other as the moonlight streamed through the open door until Aiba’s tears abated. They sat out on the veranda and listened to the calming symphony of insects, neither able to find sleep with the realization of the probable future.

“Would you leave?” Nino asked softly.

“What?”

“If it came down to that… in the end, would you stay and defend this empty castle? Or would you run?” Nino’s voice was firm and even.

“What about you? What about Jun?” Aiba asked, distressed.

“Satoshi will protect me, whether we fled or stayed; as for Jun… I don’t know. He has deeper ties here than we do. What about you?”

“I have nowhere else to go.”

“If Sakurai-san left would you go with him?” Nino watched Aiba’s silhouette in the moonlight shift uncomfortably.

“I… I don’t know. I don’t know if he would want me to go with him. I don’t know if I could leave.”

Nino sighed, a patient smile tugging at his lips. Subtlety definitely wasn’t this man’s strong suit. He shook his head slowly, casting a glance in Aiba’s direction.

“I think he would. He seems to fare better when he’s working for more than himself.”

In the soft light of the big bear and his little brother, Nino could plainly see the silly smile that brightened Aiba’s face, even as he ducked his head to try and hide it.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, Aiba woke before Nino. As he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he wondered if he had managed to fall asleep at all; his sleep had been broken and restless. He stayed there until it was light enough that the maids would be rising too. He bathed and dressed before Nino even began to stir and set about his chores. When Nino awoke, Aiba’s futon was cold. His clothes from the previous day were already taken to wash, as were Nino’s. 

Aiba was in charge of overseeing laundry and the animals. Since Kimura and his entourage were absent and Miyake and Nakano were on patrol, there were no horses to tend, so he assigned one of the younger boys to sweep the stables and keep them ready for any sudden arrivals. The chickens were fed and their eggs collected – the only food produced by the castle for itself: the rest came from the surrounding farmers. He gathered the laundry and hung assorted futon covers and sheets on the lines behind the staff residence and folded them when they were dry. Everything was taken care of well before lunch was served and the day had barely begun to warm up.

Nino handled the kitchen and dining services and worked with the head chef to keep the castle properly fed, in addition to overseeing the landscaping. He had standing orders with the younger staff assigned to groundskeeping to only bother him with petty details when they proved too large to handle themselves, which was seldom, just the way he liked it. The biggest dilemma they had faced so far was what to do with Kimura’s favourite cherry tree which had become infested with termites one summer and was being eaten from the inside out. 

At the beginning of the year, Jun had started learning how to organize the books and tackle the administrative end of running the castle from his father. His remaining chores were limited to cleaning the residences and keep – or rather making sure that Yamada and Chinen did a proper job of wiping the wood and tatami when no one was looking. 

As the noon meal was being decided upon, Aiba wandered into the kitchen looking lost and sullen. Nino didn’t have the heart to chase him out so he sent him off to help clean up the breakfast dishes with an exasperated sigh. With Aiba’s cloudy countenance it looked like a trial to complete any task; every movement looked like it took the strength of ten men. Nino had never realized how much his companion’s sunny disposition helped the day progress and make the workload seem lighter until it was gone. He was not the only one to notice: maids and other staff members alike whispered and cast worried looks between themselves. 

Nino had not seen Aiba so concentrated on his work since he first arrived at the castle, all those years ago. Only when he was severely uneasy did Aiba focus with such dedication; he had thrown himself so hard into learning his tasks and lessons back then for fear that he would be turned out if he did not prove his worth. The demon lurking this time was different but the terror created from it was the same: Aiba feared, more than anything else, being without a home, shelter and a warm bed. He feared being without family. Nino knew that feeling personally too but also knew there was nothing either of them could do but wait and watch the pieces fall. Aiba was doing what he had to do to cope.

The day passed at a glacial pace. After dinner, Ohno motioned to Nino with a small sweep of his hand as they passed each other in the hall. With his finger tips brushing the younger man’s elbow he guided them to an alcove near the pantry, speaking in a low voice.

“What’s the matter with Aiba-chan? I saw him carrying some laundry to Nagase’s room earlier; he looked like one of the castle hounds just died. And there’s been talk.”

Nino sighed heavily and hooked his little finger with Ohno’s. “He’s worried.”

“What about?” At this Nino gave the samurai a pitiful look, squeezing his finger pointedly. “Oh, of course. Is that why you didn’t come to me last night?”

“Yes,” Nino nodded. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t leave him alone like that.”

"It’s alright, I understand,” Ohno smiled kindly. “We should do… something.”

“Like what? There’s nothing we can do, not even you.”

“Well, the reports have been getting thinner. It seems that the rebellion has taken a rest, but until we learn something new, there’s nothing to be done. Nagase told us that we should go into town – there’s a festival tomorrow – and try and take our mind off of things. I want to take Sho – he’s been here over a month and not yet seen outside the castle walls. He’s also been grating on Nagase’s nerves with his questions, though he doesn’t know it. I want you to come and Aiba-chan too. And Jun. I think it would do us all some good.”

“That’s a great idea,” Nino replied. “But I don’t know if Jun would be very comfortable with that.”

“Why not? He’s the one who needs to get out the most. The castle will run itself without him; Matsumoto-san engineered it that way.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Nino said, darkly. He bit his lip and pondered whether it was his place to reveal Jun’s secret.

Ohno leaned close and lowered his voice. “Is it Aiba-chan, or Sho-kun? Or, maybe it’s both.” Nino blinked in shock, lips parted to speak yet no words would form. “Honestly, you don’t give me enough credit. You forget how observant I am.”

“I don’t know where you got that idea,” Nino snorted.

Ohno took a step forward, nudging the slight man in front of him into the shadows of the alcove and brushed his lips against the soft skin of the other's ear as he traced patterns on the back of the arm underneath his fingers. His breath stirred Nino’s hair as he spoke.

“Well, I have to watch someone when you’re not in the room.”

Nino had the good grace to blush and if Ohno felt the warmth flooding Nino’s smooth cheeks, he kept silent.

***

It didn’t take as much convincing as Nino had anticipated for Jun to agree to join them the following evening. Ohno was the one to approach him in his father’s office and pose the outing as a directive from Nagase – something which Jun could not ignore. Even if Ohno had not stretched the truth, Jun’s firm _bushido_ upbringing would have made him bend anyway. His father’s order to provide Ohno with anything he desired rang in Jun’s ears with the request.

Nino lead the group, chatting animatedly with Aiba about what they should do first when they arrived at the village, but cast concerned glances backwards every so often. Perhaps he wanted to make sure Jun didn’t desert them. Ohno walked beside Sho in the middle, pointing out interesting features of the landscape as they went. Sho listened with half an ear, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve as they made their way down the hill. Jun trailed behind as they left the castle late afternoon. His expression was closed and to those unaware, he might merely be worried for the wellbeing of the castle in his absence. 

Nino’s words echoed in Jun’s head as he caught the older man glancing over his shoulder once again. _He deserves to be happy_. Watching Aiba laugh at something Nino had said, looking back at the two samurai and then, with a troubled crease in his brow, at him, he felt guilty. He shouldn’t stand in the way of another’s happiness – it made him no better than the rebellious farmers who had plunged them all into this nightmare. 

Sho had been feeling uneasy around Jun since that day in the library. It was one thing to be anxious – it would be difficult to find someone who wasn’t at a time like this – but as they made their way down the hill, Jun was more than that. He had felt discomforted in Jun’s presence, but wasn’t sure how to amend the situation. 

Jun took a deep breath, swallowed the lump in his throat, and caught up with the samurais and retold the history of the village to Sho, filling in the holes left by Ohno. As Jun described events and stories of why things were named the way they were, Sho relaxed. Whether it was Jun’s own keen interest in the history of the village or his father’s strict instruction, though, Sho wasn’t sure.

They entered the main street of the village, lined with lanterns of red and white, just as the sun was setting. All the shop fronts were thrown open and tables were set up on the street; vendors with food and drink hawked their fare while booths with games attracted crowds of spectators. Men and women, children and grandparents filled the night air with a jovial and carefree spirit. 

The group weaved through the villagers from one end of the street to the other, taking in the sights and stopping when something caught their interest. Aiba and Nino tried to catch some goldfish in a pond made of oilskin, but neither had the skill or patience. When they sky finally darkened and the stars began to peek through the velvet night, they grabbed an empty table in front of a sake shop.

“Yamashita-kun!” Ohno called through the open door. “My bottle and five glasses!” 

“I was wondering when you would show up,” the young shop owner replied, bearing a tray laden with glassware. “I’ll get another bottle ready for you. I know it won’t take long for you to finish this one.” 

Ohno proposed a toast, “May the night be one to remember,” and five glasses clinked over the centre of the table. He and Sho reminisced across the table about their time near the capital and any drunken mishaps they could remember. Aiba and Nino supplied their own stories of mischief and mayhem from growing up in the castle, the stories flowing easily along with the sake. Jun observed, laughing when appropriate and offering comments when asked. 

He nursed his glass in his hands – which Ohno always kept brimming – and soaked in the mirth around him. Nino sat beside Ohno on the bench, close enough that their knees could touch under the table and so that Nino could lean his head on Ohno’s shoulder when he recovered from a bout of explosive laughter. Sho sat across from Ohno with the stout brown bottle between them, taking turns refilling each other’s glasses. Beside Sho sat Aiba with his elbows on the table and his bright face cradled in his hands, a distinct flush on his cheeks from the drink. Jun sat on a stool at the end of the table, facing the door of the sake shop and his friends.

 _Friends_ … he watched the rapid fire exchange of jokes and stories, anecdotes and jibes; everyone was happy and smiling. He should be too, he thought bitterly as he took a long draught of his sake. _They have all been good to me, but what have I done for them?_

"So, what is this festival?” Sho asked, accepting another cup of sake from Ohno with a nod.

“This is the star festival,” answered Aiba. “The legend goes that the celestial emperor’s youngest daughter was a great weaver and her name was Ori Hime. One day, she met a young cowherd, Hikoboshi, and they fell in love.” He pointed to two clusters of stars in the sky above them.

“They were so deeply in love that she neglected her weaving, and he his herd. Her father became angry and banished her lover to other side of the Milky Way. She looked for him across the river of stars and cried everyday. Her father was so moved by her tears that he consented to let them meet once a year.”

“So we hold a festival every year in honour of their union,” Nino finished. “Even though it’s a tragic story, it’s a celebration of love.”

Jun felt his stomach lurch. Every little touch, each whispered word, each stolen look wrenched his insides. His head told him he was seeing more than was actually there but his heart still felt sick. Jun lost track of how much he’d drunk; his head was swimming and his eyelids felt heavy. He pushed his glass to the side and rested his chin on folded arms, the cacophony of voices washing over him.

"Jun-tan, come on. You can’t sleep on the table.” 

_Jun-tan_ … Aiba’s nickname for him.

“Come on, stand up. Let’s go for a walk.” 

He was being shaken and lifted by the shoulders. Aiba helped him stand – it could only be Aiba-chan for he was the only one taller than Jun – and when he was properly upright, Aiba hooked one arm through his and held his hand with the other, ready to catch the younger man should his legs fail him. 

Jun tried to keep his eyes open but the world kept spinning beneath his feet. He leaned more on Aiba, and let himself be lead through the crowd, music and voices enveloping him. The atmosphere of the festival soon quieted and he found they had already walked to the end of the street. When Jun forced his eyes open, he could see the castle looming over them on top of the hill.

“I’m sorry,” Aiba said. Jun could barely hear him.

“For what?” Jun was genuinely surprised.

“For whatever I did; for what happened in the library.”

Jun bowed his head and took a deep breath, trying to keep the slur out of his voice. “No, I should be apologizing to you, Masaki. I shouldn’t have…” Jun’s voice trailed off. “I was just frustrated.” 

Jun untangled himself from Aiba and wobbled to a nearby maple. He could feel his heartbeat in his head, accelerated by the sake and his emotions. He leaned against the trunk and pressed his face to the rough bark, the texture against his skin grounding him. 

“Sakurai-san is a good man.” Jun turned and focused on Aiba’s face, whose skin was tinted a soft rose from the glow of the lanterns. “He will take care of you.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” Aiba protested weakly.

“He will make you happy.”

"What are you saying? I am happy! I’m happy with my life in the castle with you and Kazu and Ohno-san and everyone,” Aiba cried.

Jun caught his friend’s gaze and held it before continuing, determined to say everything that had been weighing him down for the last six, seven, seventeen years. After this, there was no going back. “He could make you happier than I could. And I think he would…” Jun stopped, his voice choked with the onset of tears. Aiba covered the distance between them in two long strides, wiping Jun’s wet cheeks with his thumbs. He could see Aiba’s concerned, patient stare even with his eyes closed.

Jun took a deep breath, a shudder vibrating in his chest as he looked his own demon and accepted its sobering reality. Aiba’s solid presence surrounding him, he found the strength to speak but not enough to open his eyes.

“He will never know you as well as I do, but I think he will have the courage to tell you he loves you like I never could.” 

Aiba wrapped his arms around Jun’s shivering shoulders, as if he were clinging to someone about to die. The more Jun cried the harder Aiba held him; Jun couldn’t bring himself to hug him back. He felt wetness penetrate the fabric at his shoulder and realized that Aiba was crying too.

“Even though you couldn’t, I think I always knew. You were always watching me and helping me and you never did for Kazu. If you had said something…”

Jun was silent, staring out over Aiba’s shoulder. “You knew?”

“I can’t even remember when it started…”

“You knew…” Jun pushed Aiba away from him and held the other at arms length. He wasn’t sure whether he should be upset, disappointed, or enraged. He was too drained to feel much of anything. There was just one last question he needed to ask before this could all be over. 

“So, if I had said something sooner,” by which they both knew he meant before Sakurai Sho’s fate entwined them at Iwatsuki Castle, “would you have been able to love me in return?”

Aiba took one step back, leaving Jun’s touch, helping Jun break whatever Aiba held for him. “You’re my brother.” 

“Would you have been able to love me back?!” Jun repeated harshly, getting angry. Even though he already knew the answer – had always known the answer for that’s why he’d never asked the question – he couldn’t help but drive the dagger a little bit deeper. He needed to cut out everything he felt for the man standing before him.

Once spoken, the solitary word hung in the air between them, so dark and despairing and out of place amongst the revelry.

“No.”

Jun shoved himself away from the tree and shouldered past the taller man, making his way back down the main street towards the others, away from Aiba. His head felt thick and his throat dry; his vision was still unstable. He clawed his way through the tides of villagers, half-heartedly searching for familiar faces. He never looked back to see if Aiba was following him. 

He navigated his way back to the sake shop but their table had been taken over. Jun stood by the door and tried to scan the crowd but he couldn’t get his eyes to focus. He felt hot and feverish and as he closed his eyes he felt the world tilt on its axis at a sickening angle, throwing him to the ground to expel the contents of his stomach onto the packed dirt of the street. He heard footsteps rushing towards him, a cool hand on his back drawing soothing circles, as he retched into the gutter.

Aiba saw Jun collapse from across the street and Yamashita tending to his crumpled form. He searched the ranks of anonymous faces before spotting the two samurai and Nino. He weaved his way through a clump of mothers with their toddlers and without a word grabbed Sho’s hand and tugged him towards the shop. Ohno and Nino hurried after.

Upon seeing his friend keeled over on the ground with his face in his hands, Nino sighed knowingly and dropped down to Jun’s side. He placed a hand on the back of Jun’s head and began to pet his hair with parental affection. He looked up at the other’s concerned faces, noting how Aiba hid slightly behind Sho, avoiding Nino’s eyes, and that their fingers were still laced. 

“It seems that Jun-chan has had too much; I think it’s time for him to go home.”

Ohno came forward and helped Nino lift Jun to his feet. One arm over each of their shoulders, they supported his dead weight between them, his head lolling forward as they gathered him up. 

“You two should stay,” Ohno said as they turned towards the castle. “We’ve only been here a few hours, and they haven’t even set off the fireworks yet.”

“But… are you sure?” Sho looked faintly guilty as if he had been the one who forced Jun to drink himself into oblivion.

“You should stay,” Nino repeated firmly. “Jun just needs some water and sleep. Take your time. We won’t wait up.” 

***

They stood in the street, hand in hand, watching Nino and Ohno escort Jun back to the castle, laughing and smiling at each other over the top of their charge’s head. Nino had the talent to make light of any situation; Aiba liked that about him most. 

“You’ve been crying.”

Aiba wiped his face awkwardly with the back of his left hand though the tears had already dried, and just nodded. Sho watched him trying to right his appearance, looking like a bathing kitten, his favoured hand still comfortably tangled in his. Now that it was there, Sho did not want to let go. Something had happened between Aiba and Jun but he wouldn’t ask; he could at least pay Aiba the same kindness he had shown him. 

The gloom that was settled upon them had parted that evening as they sat around the table and it was good. Sho felt warm and relaxed – no doubt due in part to Ohno’s sake – but it felt _right_ for the first time to be where he was. It felt right to be standing in the middle of a crowded street under the flickering lanterns, wading through the sounds and smells of the evening. Above all that, the palm against his felt perfect and like it belonged there, more so than any book or brush ever did.

They stood in the middle of the street, being jostled by passing couples and families and as Sho just looked at Aiba, a silly grin tugged at his lips for no reason at all. 

"Come on,” he said, leading him past a gaggle of girls in colourful yukata begging their mothers to let them stay out longer.

They strolled down the narrow streets and alleys, taking in the interesting concoction of sights and scents. They watched an artist as he painted a portrait of a young woman, and they ate freshly grilled chicken. They laughed as children tried to catch baby goldfish with fans and had more success than Aiba or Nino had earlier that evening. There was a troupe of women in sombre yukata performing folk dances to the music of a drum and flute who motioned for them to join in.

And they talked. 

Sho described his home village and their summer festivals, which were meagre in scale compared to this. He retold the story of how he lost his sister when he was eight and spent the whole festival crying while she was watching an acrobat three shops away and how his dad berated him for losing her. He talked about how he will read pretty much anything and taste anything once and how he likes to sleep until the sun comes up just high enough to peak over the windowsill into his room in the morning.

Aiba recounted several childhood exploits in which he and Nino – and sometimes they would kidnap Jun and take him along – would sneak out through a narrow hole in the fence beside the back gate of the castle grounds and steal into the village and visit the sweets shop, eat steamed meat buns sitting on the street corner just over there, or play games with other children on the banks of the Moto-Arakawa River. 

They walked along the waterway that fed the fields and village, lit by floating lanterns, until they came to the large stone _torii_ of the shrine. 

“Every year, people come to the shrine around this time to write a wish and pray for their ancestors,” Aiba explained.

He quieted as they passed under the stone gate and approached the modest shrine. The doors were open, displaying an altar laden with candles and offerings in front of a gilded mirror. He reached into his sleeve and withdrew a single coin. Tossing it into the cedar tithing box, he rang the hollow copper bell before standing silently with his hands pressed together. Sho did the same and they stood side by side in fervent prayer. 

They explored the grounds of the temple, catching glimpses of red and white robed figures in the shadows – temple maidens scuttling past between vigils. A bamboo grove hedged the shrine, the floating lanterns on the river glinted through the leaves. Hundreds of strips of paper were tied to the shoots with wishes for health, happiness, safety and prosperity. Shoulders and fingers brushing, they followed the grove behind the shrine, reading the desires of Iwatsuki village.

Those closest to the ground were written wobbly and sometimes with a missing stroke or two by children wanting a new toy, a baby brother or sister, or a chance to see a real live fish in the ocean just once. At waist height, there were aspirations for an education, an occupation, a chance to give parents and grandparents a comfortable life in their golden years by young boys. Near the heart were women’s dreams of finding a kind man and a good husband, bearing healthy children and the strength to care for them. On the highest branches were the yearnings of men for safety and peace and the courage and skill to protect their families from danger in the coming months.

Aiba’s hand trailed along the strips fluttering on the branches until his eyes caught a flash of a familiar character; _Elegance._ His feet stopped, bringing Sho’s to a halt behind him and his fingers stilled the sheet to reveal another: _Chronicle_. He held the wish with both hands and read. He could already feel Sho smiling into his shoulder.

_I wish for Masaki and Sho to find happiness in each other._

“But, this is Kazu’s writing. H-how... when?” Aiba stuttered, staring at the strip of paper.

“Just after you left with Jun, he ran off to do something and left me and Satoshi-kun at the table. He didn’t tell us where he was going but wasn’t gone very long.”

Aiba read the wish over and over, tracing the lines of his name with this finger. “Kazu comes to the shrine every year, without fail, and makes a wish. He never tells me what he wishes for, and would never let me look for it. I can’t believe he would use his wish on me.”

“Your friends really care about you,” Sho murmured into Aiba’s neck, tentatively placing his hands on the other’s narrow waist.

“They think of me so much – too much. You’d never know that I’m the eldest,” Aiba replied, wryly. Sho looked at Aiba’s face and watched the flicker of emotions play across his features, one after the other – shock, embarrassment, joy, panic. “How am I ever going to pay him back?”

The innate innocence of Aiba’s nature was so tangible and open that it made Sho want to reach out and touch him. He turned the younger man to face him and moved his hands from Aiba’s hips to his cheeks.

"He wouldn’t have given it to you if he didn’t want you to have it.” 

“But I—” 

And there was nothing else for Sho to do but kiss him quiet. It was a chaste kiss, coloured with the barest hesitation; a kiss for the sake of a kiss. There was no taking, only giving. Sho gave him, with that very first kiss, the beginning. 

“The only thing worth doing is fulfilling Nino’s wish,” Sho whispered against Aiba’s lips.

Aiba breathed in and the words of the wish unleashed the magnetism he felt pulling him towards the samurai. He felt lightheaded and giddy as he pressed close to Sho and drank with his senses. Sho’s lips were slightly chapped from being chewed in concentration. Sho’s fingertips playing with his chocolate hair were smooth; the heels of his hands caressing his neck were calloused from sword practice. Aiba’s hands traced the outline of Sho’s obi, his waist firm and trim under his yukata. He could smell the scent of sandalwood that permeated Sho’s skin in the air and quiet sighs and short breaths that came from both of them filled his ears.

As Aiba’s tongue became adventurous and traveled the seam of Sho’s lips, they heard a cough nearby and the rustle of robes. They came apart slowly, breathing deep and slightly uneven, grinning like silly teenagers. 

"I know a place,” Aiba said into Sho’s ear and took his hand. They ran through the short buildings of the shrine to an old teahouse on the bank of the river. “Jun, Nino and I found this when we got caught out as a typhoon hit once.”

“When you weren’t supposed to be out,” Sho inferred, his hands finding Aiba’s body in the dark.

“Naturally,” Aiba replied, a smile lighting his voice. “No one knew we’d been here and no one missed us when we got back the next morning.” 

They sat across from each other, faces and features shadowed and blurry in the lightless room, learning each other. Their movements were matched and even: they alternately traced the contours and lines of backs, shoulders, chests, stomachs with fingers and tongues. They experimented with touch and taste across every plain and angle. If I lick the back of his knees, what sound will he make? If I brush the space between his third and forth rib this way, how fast will his pulse race? If we grind our hips against each other, how good will that feel?

There wasn’t any pressure to go fast and it wasn’t a race. Each wanted to give as much pleasure as he was being given. Aiba trailed his hand over the topography of Sho’s torso to his cock, already so hard and straining, as they lay in the middle of the tatami. His strokes were careful and wary – learning what Sho liked by the way his hips would jerk and the muscles in his legs would flex trying to restrain them from ending it all too soon. Sho grazed his short fingernails up the smooth expanse of Aiba’s thigh before encircling him, matching Aiba’s paced stroking, committing to memory what spots to grip just so to make him purr into Sho’s mouth as he continued to play with the other’s tongue. 

They slid against each other, moans hushed as the tension grew and orgasm came upon them like the slow approach of a wave as the tide comes in, rolling over the sea and cresting before crashing into the smooth surface of the beach. Aiba came first, arching into Sho, a moan muffled against his chest as he placed wet kisses to the rise of Sho’s collarbones while orgasm coursed through him. Watching the spasms overtake Aiba’s body was almost more arousing than having Aiba’s fingers draw the character of his name across his stomach; it only took one stroke of Aiba’s thumb across the head of his cock to have him coming into his hand with a short grunt.

Their panting and contented hums filled the small room. Aiba wound his legs through Sho's, nestling against his chest; Sho threw a yukata across their nakedness to blanket them from the pre-dawn chill. In the distance, beyond the paper screens of the tea room, faint booming of fireworks could be heard. Neither moved to open the shutters, satisfied with merely listening to each other and imagining the vibrant colours splattered across the sky. 


	9. Chapter 9

The tatami was soft, worn by time and tea ceremonies, beneath his hand. His skin was raw, the hair on his arms standing straight at the nip of dawn, remembering the careful caresses of only a few hours ago. Head pillowed on one arm, Sho swept the hair from Aiba’s face, fingertips barely brushing his pink cheeks; the sleeping man murmured softly and nestled closer, leaning his forehead into Sho’s chest. Sho pulled the robe-come-blanket up to their waists and looped his arm around Aiba’s back, pulling him closer, gently.

The morning was as calm as any other. It was quiet but for the chirp of a nightingale outside, the babble of the river and the deep, even breathing of the man beside him. The trees were still and the town asleep. The room was lightening as the sun climbed the sky, illuminating the small tea house for Sho to see. 

The hearth was clean and empty, void of iron kettle or porcelain pot. There was no table or cushions or scroll of seasonal calligraphy hanging in the alcove. No vase of summer blossoms arranged underneath. It truly was abandoned, just as Aiba had said: no one had been here in recent memory. Yet it was cared for by someone, dust on all the surfaces swept away. 

Sho closed his eyes and returned his focus to the warmth of the skin under his fingers. He brushed them along Aiba’s back, up and down, between his shoulders, pausing at the top of his spine to massage his neck and play with his hair, taking a moment at the base to pull the robe tighter around them. He slid his foot between Aiba’s and hooked it behind one of his ankles. 

There was nothing amiss in the tiny forgotten room; nothing to disturb or trouble them, and yet he felt uneasy. Aiba was dreaming in his arms—something nice, surely, by the curve of his lips—and yet he felt he shouldn’t join him for a few more hours of sleep before returning to the castle. He had a feeling something wasn’t right: they shouldn’t be there. No one would chastise them for staying out all night—Nagase had more pressing issues on his mind—and yet, he felt they should have gone back to the castle. 

Aiba stirred, close to waking, mumbling unintelligibly and Sho stilled his fingers, cupping the back of Aiba’s neck until he settled. His sleep was fitful, but his body refused to wake just yet. It was still very early, Sho guessed somewhere near the fifth hour. He flattened his hand against the blade of Aiba’s shoulder and willed himself to doze for a while longer. More than the feeling of solicitude, he knew he did not yet want to leave this.

When Sho woke a second time, the shadows were chased away from the corners of the tea house, the sun climbed just above the line of trees. The nightingale had left its perch, but the river still whispered to them. Aiba’s head was tucked beneath his chin, his soft breath cool against Sho’s chest. The town should have woke and the day begun, but there were no sounds of life to be heard from the people going about their day’s chores. The quiet was unnerving.

He nudged Aiba gently with his chin, nosing his air and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “It’s time to wake up, Masaki,” he murmured against his cheek.

Aiba yawned and uncurled himself from Sho’s side, stretching long limbs across the bare tatami before blinking up at the ceiling. “What time is it?”

“Late enough. We should get back to the castle.” 

They dressed quietly, Sho listening intently for sounds from the shrine, the village, any where. The only sounds his ears could catch were the ruffle of their cotton yukata and the sigh of tatami under their feet. 

“I wonder if Jun will still be angry with me…” Aiba pondered, stepping up behind Sho to straighten the clamshell knot of his obi. His hands felt heavy on Sho’s waist. “Thank you, Sho-san,” Aiba said, hands pausing in their work. “For yesterday.”

He remembered Jun heaving in the gutter the previous night, red face stained with dirt and tears, drunk and anguished. Though he didn’t understand what had transpired to make Aiba search for him frantically in the crowded street and take him by the hand, he didn’t need to know.

“Any time,” he replied, turning to catch Aiba’s eye to show he meant it. 

“Do you think they missed us last night?” Aiba asked lightly.

“I doubt it very much,” Sho answered, slipping into his geta. Aiba closed the shoji screen, sealing the tea house, and left it just as they found it. “I have a feeling this was Nino’s intention. But let’s not keep them waiting much longer.” Aiba nodded, smiling. 

Now that they were out in the open, they should have been able to hear people selling their wares and hawking their services faintly through the bamboo grove as they made their way back through the shrine grounds. The alter doors were now closed, all the offerings and wishes locked up inside. There was no swish of vermilion hakama as maidens scuttled around the wooden walkways, no hollow clang of bells or jingle of coins. 

The silence was eerie. 

Their shadows walked ahead of them, the angle that of mid-morning. The festival lanterns still hung, candles inside burned out, between the trees along the path. No one had come to take them down yet. 

“Sho-san?” Aiba questioned as Sho clasped his hand, pulling the younger to follow behind him.

“Something isn’t right. Don’t you hear anything?”

“No.”

“Exactly. It’s strange.”

“Well, it is the morning after the festival. People aren’t so quick to rise after a night like the last,” Aiba reasoned. It made sense, but Sho didn’t feel any less on edge.

“Just… stay close to me.”

They retraced their steps, following the curve of the river back into the heart of the village. Sho’s grip relaxed when they heard the patter of feet and horses on the dusty streets and the ringing of voices over the roofs of the residential quarter. There was shouting and the clatter of wood on wood; a cloud the colour of cold tea rose above the main street, filling their noses with the scent of packed earth, not uncommon when goods were unpacked from the countryside.

They turned as the river veered east, flowing through the downtown core, taking a small side street lined with small townhouses: a tailor, a dry-goods store, a confectionery. The street ran alongside the main artery through the village, crossing the street that lead to the castle. They could see the main intersection and the sounds got louder with every step. Sho’s pace increased, his hold on Aiba’s hand never loosening, hurrying towards the sounds of life.

A woman’s scream pierced the commotion on the main road, causing Sho to stop abruptly. She screamed, and again, sobbing out someone’s name— _Kenji! Kenji! Oh, my god, Kenji!!—_ a brother, a husband, maybe a son—and they saw her run through the crossroads ahead of them. She clutched the hem of her kimono and tripped on the gravel, face smeared with something wet and hair loose down her back. Then the thunder of hooves rushed up her and them both. Her voice was loud and shrill, crying out for Kenji, for someone to stop, to not--

Then two horsemen cut her down. She looked right into their eyes with shining swords in the bright morning sun, her body left trampled and broken.

Aiba gasped, breath catching with fear, scrabbling for Sho’s other hand. Sho held Aiba tighter; he could feel both of their palms starting to sweat.

The sounds of footsteps were not of merchants doing trade but mercenaries, slaughtering people in the streets. Now they were close enough to hear the words being shouted—harsh, angry commands in a dialect from the north— _take what’s valuable, run them through if they try to resist._ Over the scent of soil was the scorch of fire and soot and blood.

Sho bolted across the street, down the alley adjacent to the main road, pulling Aiba along stumbling behind as fast as he could. He was lost, only knowing which direction the castle lay and that they needed to get there as soon as possible. They had no knowledge of who these raiders were, what they wanted, or what they would do—though Sho was fairly certain they would not be treated kindly. He had no weapons, nothing to defend Aiba or himself with. 

Sho turned and gripped Aiba’s hands when they reached the corner and said, “You have to get back to the castle.” 

“Wait—what about you?” Aiba replied, eyes wide. Sho could feel him trembling, fumbling for a hold on Sho’s sleeves.

“You know the town far better than I do: take all the short cuts you can think of and alert Nagase and the others.”

“You can’t stay here! You don’t know how many there are. You saw what they did—”

“You’ll be less noticeable alone. I have to try and do something.”

"But I—you—” Aiba’s voice was thick, his fingers tangled in the light summery fabric of Sho’s robe.

“I’ll be alright,” he said, trying to assuring Aiba as best he could when he knew fate was not on his side. He let go of Aiba’s hands and cupped his face, wiping sweat and tears from his cheeks with rough fingers. He held Aiba’s fevered gaze for a heartbeat. “I promise.”

"You can't— I don't want to leave y—"

He held Aiba’s fevered gaze for a heartbeat. “I promise.” He pulled Aiba's face close and kissed him, firmly, fervently; Sho needed the reassurance as much as Aiba did.

And with that he turned Aiba in the direction of the white towering walls and pushed him down the alley, whispering in his ear, “Be safe.” 

Aiba stumbled. He stopped to throw a longing look over his shoulder before kicking off his geta. Then he picked up his shoes and ran. Sho watched as long as he could bear, praying that Aiba would arrive safely and that help would come soon.

Sho turned in the opposite direction and wound his away back to the main intersection. He climbed the low wall of a shop house and dropped into a lush Zen garden. He needed something to disarm an attacker with, though he knew he would find no blade in any house to match what the raiders carried. All the samurai in the village resided in the castle and all their swords under Matsumoto-san’s—now Jun’s—lock and key. 

The main floor of the house was deserted; its inhabitants either hiding upstairs, escaped, or dead. The door to the garden was left ajar but Sho couldn’t bring himself to search the kitchen for a knife, not that it would have been much use against a sword. He found a rake, long and elegant, used for arranging the sand of the garden in peace and meditation. How ironic that it would be turned into a weapon, Sho thought. But it was long and sharp enough.

Sho circled around to the front of the house and took a deep breath. He settled against the side of the wall in the shadows, observing through the slatted cedar gate. It would do no good running blind into the street and get himself killed; he had a promise to keep.

The air was grey with smoke from somewhere on the west side of the village—a shop or house burned, wood popping and crackling as the flames fed. The street was scarred with footprints and hoof marks, tables and stalls from the festival bare and abandoned. Storefronts were broken, inventory chucked into the streets to be carted off by the thieves. 

There were two men on horseback, brandishing long katana only, one in muddy blue and the other with a red scarf around his neck. They were not samurai: their form was poor and untrained and they had no short sword at their side. There were three or four others on foot, pillaging foodstuff and items worth selling on the trade road. He knew there must be more men waiting in the countryside. He saw no villagers except for a handful of bodies lining the sidewalks: men, merchants and parents, dead trying to protect their lives and livelihoods. He saw no women except for Kenji’s beloved. Sho sent a prayer to the seven gods of luck, the great Buddha, the spirits of the valley and mountains that the people would stay hidden until the danger passed, that Aiba had made it to the castle and that he would remain unscathed in combat.

The two horsemen were the greatest threat, armed with the advantage of a steed. It was a fool’s errand to leave his spot in the shadows but he couldn’t sit back and watch these strangers rape the place that had become home to him. He only needed to bide his time and wait for a chance.

Sho watched as a shopkeeper was lead into the street and pushed to his knees. He was no older than Sho but his face was aged with fear. The man did not resist, kneeling in the dirt in his night clothes. The rider in blue dismounted and circled the shopkeeper. 

“I already told your man, I have nothing left.” It was Yamashita, the wine seller. “All I have are empty casks and barrels.” 

“You mean to say you have sold every last drop of sake in your shop? I find that hard to believe.”

There was a scream from inside the shop and Sho’s heart clenched, the image of Kenji’s beloved still fresh. He could not bear to see that again. A girl ran to the door of the shop, crying, “Onii-chan!” 

“Rina, _go inside_!” She clutched the door frame as her brother spoke to her, his gaze never leaving the face of his assailant. “Go upstairs and stay there until I come get you.”

Sho could see Yamashita’s caramel coloured skin and straight nose in her face; she looked to be about twenty, nearly the same age as his own sister.

“How touching,” the raider drawled, moving to Rina’s side. He gripped the back of her neck and squeezed, causing the girl to whimper and her face to contort with pain. “What do you think you can do for your brother? You’re only a woman, and only just barely.”

“Take the money, whatever you can find, anything. Just don’t hurt her, _please_.” Yamashita’s voice cracked, his emotions rapidly unfurling, and the man in blue knew it.

“Why would I hurt her? Her pretty face could fetch a pretty price from the right buyer. Even more, if she’s a virgin,” at this he pulled her close and trailed his nose up her throat, inhaling the scent from her skin. “And I suspect that she is.”

“Please, no. Anything else,” Yamashita begged. 

The raider lifted his sword and rested the point at the base of Yamashita’s throat. “I could take her and spare you. You have nothing else to give me that I want. But I think I’ll kill you anyway. What good is a sake seller with no sake?”

Sho had waited too long. This had to be his chance. 

He threw the gate aside and ran into the street, blinded by fury. Adrenaline and rage guided his hand, landing blow after blow and blocking strike after strike. He tried to concentrate on the fight and implement everything Nagano had taught him about swordplay. Sho could see the holes left wide open in his attackers defence but the rake was unbalanced and not made for combat. It was beginning to feel like lead in his hands and he couldn’t block quickly enough: pain seared through his arm as the raider landed a blow. Sho dropped the rake and clutched his wound. It was deep and his sleeve was growing dark quickly. 

He couldn’t see Yamashita any more, nor his sister. Sho had no weapon and no strength left to carry one. He charged at his attacker with all his power, growling, shoulder connecting with chin but it only dazed him temporarily. Sho saw the sun travel the edge of the sword as the raider lifted the blade above his head. The thunder of hooves echoed off the storefronts and Sho thought, _This must be the end. More raiders are coming. I’m sorry, Masaki. I couldn't keep my promise._

The shout of a man whose life was draining out of him, his body collapsed in the dirt, tired from battle and finally at rest, his young life taken too soon. Blood frothed at his lips and pooled around him, mixing with the loosened earth to form a muddy puddle. It was a most undignified way to die but perhaps he did not deserve dignity for running so foolishly to his death.

Sho stared at the shaft of the arrow protruding from his attackers back, feathers fluttering in the light summer breeze. He felt dizzy; the adrenaline was receding and his heart was galloping in his chest. He thought he was surely going to die. 

“Sakurai, are you alive?” Okada shouted across the street. 

“Yes, barely,” he replied. 

Okada tugged on the reigns of his horse, gesturing in all directions with the point of an arrow. Soldiers—Kimura’s men—hurried down narrow alleys in search of the raiders. 

“You need to get yourself back to the castle,” Okada said, stepping down from his horse. “Take the horse, he’s tired from the hard ride but he’ll be faster than walking. We’ve got things under control.”

Sho could only nod dumbly as Okada helped him into the saddle.

***

The castle was humming when Sho returned. Servants ran from room to room carrying information, food and first-aid for the returned soldiers. After nearly falling from the saddle with exhaustion, Sho let himself be carried to his quarters. The gash on his arm required stitches. Ohno held him still while the physician sewed the wound closed, explaining what had happened. 

Miyake and Okada were on their way back to Iwatsuki when they encountered a group of men on the main road from the north. They spoke of heading to the capital and taking what they were owed. They detoured to one of the military posts to gather some troops before heading back to the castle at full speed. Miyake circled to the back gate of the castle while Okada and the soldiers entered the town. They had only just arrived when Okada found Sho about to be slain by the group’s leader. The other swordsmen and the four footmen in the village had been caught and were being detained in the dungeon in the basement of the keep. But from Miyake’s report, there were another half dozen that are unaccounted for. Okada and the troop were combing the countryside for them.

“Miyake-san? When did he arrive?” Sho asked weakly while the doctor wrapped his arm in gauze.

“Late morning. We began preparing for everyone’s return soon after.”

“What about Masaki?”

“...Wasn’t he with you?” Ohno replied hesitantly.

Any colour left in Sho’s cheeks drained away at Ohno’s question. Aiba should have made it to the castle long before Miyake. It couldn’t have been ten o’clock yet when they parted. 

The door to Sho’s room rattled in its tracks as Jun opened it forcefully. There was no bow, no formal address, no show of deference as he stalked into the room and grabbed the lapels of Sho’s robe, straddling him in his futon. 

“ _Where is he_?” Jun demanded, his anger bare for all to see.

“I—I sent him to the castle to warn you,” Sho’s voice wavered, panic starting to bubble up inside. “I sent him to the castle to keep him safe. He should be here. He should have been here before Miyake! He knows the town better than me, that’s why I sent him away.” 

“I left him in your care!” Jun cried, shaking Sho as tears of frustration leaked from his eyes. “I thought you would keep him safe! I thought I could trust you with him. That’s why I let him go _to be with you_!”

“I did it to protect him! It was the best I could do.”

“Well, your best wasn’t good enough. Your best probably got him killed.” Jun’s words hit like a slap in the face. Ohno pried Jun’s fingers from the collar of Sho’s robe and sent him away on some errand they both knew to be meaningless. The damage had been done.

Sho brought his knees to his chin and wrapped his arms around himself, despite the pain. It was only a fraction of the pain Aiba must be feeling now, if he were alive. “He didn’t want to leave me. I saw it and I still made him go. I should have—”

Ohno reached out to his best friend and made Sho look into his eyes.

“Okada and the others are still out there looking. They won’t stop until they’ve found every one of those bastards. They _will_ find him. You have to have hope.”

“It’s all my fault,” Sho choked out. And then he broke, tears spilling down his face, soaking his sleeves with guilt.


	10. Chapter 10

The attack on the Imperial guard had been the first fracture in the peace of Musashi province, as Miyake had predicted. He was now certain that the raid on the provincial capital would shatter it entirely, once word spread to the borders. Okada and the soldiers had been able to secure the village—only just in time—but not without casualties. Five men had been killed, and one of their wives. Several others had been injured and beaten. One was missing. Everyone was traumatized. 

The village was safer now with a troop of two dozen of Kimura’s soldiers stationed at all roads into the village. They could protect the people from another skirmish but they would fall quickly in a large-scale attack without reinforcements. There had been no correspondence from Kimura himself but there was nothing he could suggest that Miyake hadn’t already though of. And without comrades to replace those fallen, they would all die fighting. Or have no choice but to run.

For two days, the immediate countryside was searched for the remaining raiders but not one was found. There were campsites left behind but it was hard to tell who had last used them and when. There had been no sightings of travelers for weeks; people were too afraid to be on the open road with the threat of attack fresh and heavy. Aiba was merely one more figure in the tally, an unforeseeable consequence of the incident to all but four people in the castle.

Jun cried the first night Aiba was gone, locking himself in his chambers. Nino knocked and knocked but got nothing in response. He left tray of food outside Jun's door but it was untouched when he returned in the morning. When his eyes dried, Jun wore a veneer of calmness: it was his duty to appear strong in his father’s stead. He directed the wounded to the doctor and distributed the castle’s rationed medical supplies to the villagers as best he could. He spoke with confidence and surety but Nino could see the pain in his eyes that he hid so well. While Jun was angry with himself for letting Aiba go, he blamed Sho for his disappearance. Aiba was his responsibility; he would have been safe if Jun had held on, for just one more day. 

Sho was restless and itched to join the search party but Ohno refused, exercising his seldom-used seniority. His wound had yet to begin to knit and tired easily still from the blood-loss. He looked weary, like a man sentenced to death. In his stead, Ohno offered to go search the surrounding forest and relayed the findings to Sho each evening. 

Being confined to his room amplified Sho's guilt. He knew Jun blamed him, and was convinced that Nino must as well. It was clear in the Jun's glare, when he wasn't pretending Sho didn't exist. They were family to each other and Sho had single-handedly destroyed that.The castle was filled with whispers and pitying eyes: word spread fast that Sho had been the last to see Aiba. At each turn he hoped to see Aiba’s face; his heart thudded against his ribs at the clink of porcelain as he passed the kitchen. He felt his heart heavy in his chest, tight and leaden like the armor that belonged to his father, wrapped in the unshed tears and unsaid words. 

So he escaped to the village and wandered the streets. Perhaps that’s where he hid, maybe that’s where he was captured or died. It only tormented Sho more but it was the least he thought he deserved. He visited the shrine and spent hours in prayer: if Aiba was alive, that he was well and would come home safely and soon. If he was not, that his soul would find some rest in the after life and that he would be happy to be with his family again. 

Ohno watched Nino flit about the castle, managing Aiba’s chores as well as his own. “Time won’t stop because he’s away,” he had said, matter-of-factly. Doing the work of two people, additional errands between the keep and kitchens for the samurai, seeing Jun and Sho mourn, laying blame and drowning in it, trying to be silently solid and supportive was impossible for one person. 

Nino slept little the first night, napping in the main entry between greeting returned soldiers and helping the doctor treat the wounded. The next night, when there was nothing left to keep him busy, Nino retired to his room but couldn’t step through the door. He stood with his hand on the frame, staring at the tatami where Aiba’s futon would have been spread out—if he were there. He couldn’t swallow the lump his throat or draw enough breath; it was suddenly so very real.

“He’s not here,” Nino whispered when Ohno opened his door that second night. “He really isn’t here anymore and I don’t know if he’s—" His words turned into sobs and got lost in Ohno’s shoulder has he pulled Nino inside and into his arms. Aiba had always been there, always slept in their room, even when Nino hadn’t.

“I can’t sleep in that room without him,” Nino murmured, once his tears had abated. “It’s lonely.” Ohno pulled him into his futon, wrapping them both in the light blankets used in summer.

“You can always stay here, you know that,” Ohno replied, rubbing Nino’s back comfortingly.

Nino curled into Ohno’s chest, letting the samurai’s soothing touch calm him. He was silent for a long time and Ohno thought he must have fallen asleep, until he shifted and reached for Ohno’s hand.

“It was bad luck,” he said, lacing his fingers through Ohno's. “Jun and Sho-san want to go on blaming each other but it was just bad luck. Masaki knows the town so well—and if Sho-san had stayed with him, then maybe he’d be gone too. I know that, in my head.”

“...But?”

“But what if I hadn't told Jun to give up and let go? What if I hadn't made that wish? Or told them to stay? Would he still be g-gone?” Nino asked, trying not to cry again.

"Kazu..." Ohno cupped Nino's cheek gently, smearing an errant tear across his skin. "You can't think like that. You can't live in the past or change what happened. It isn't your fault; you didn't do anything wrong."

“It isn’t fair,” Nino replied. Ohno could hear the pout in his voice. “It isn’t fair that Masaki was taken. He was innocent, he never hurt anyone. I wanted him to be happy."

"And he was happy; you saw it as clearly as I did, even with his face red from crying. We don't know what's happened to him. There's still hope."

"Everyday we don't find him there's a little bit less."

"But it's still there."

"It's—I don't understand. Why—" Nino grumbled into Ohno's chest, struggling to put into words what he was feeling: being the pessimist he was, he feared the worst had happened but didn't want to believe Aiba was really and truly gone. He couldn't reconcile his logic and his emotions.

“I know how close you were to him. I know it hurts; I miss him too.”

“It isn’t fair,” Nino finished, defeated. 

“I know.”

***

Ohno returned to the castle after the third full day of searching exhausted. It had been only a small group—Nagano, Okada, Miyake, Yamaguchi and himself—and they had gone farther afield on the north side of the castle where the forest was denser. They found a path of broken branches and crushed foliage where people, maybe two or three, had slept but the trail was cold. Whoever had been there left days ago and their tracks were soon lost in the thick underbrush and fading sunlight.

Even with the discovery of _something_ , Yamaguchi declared that it was draining their resources to continue searching for something they would never find. Ohno knew it was a smart decision to make: if rebels fell on the castle when half of its samurai were tracking someone in the brush half a day’s walk away… He shivered to think on the consequences. They couldn’t risk weakening their defences any longer. They would search for one more day, and then turn their energies elsewhere.

He understood that it was the reasonable—safe—choice but Ohno disagreed. How could they stop looking? Ohno refused to believe Aiba was dead until they found his body. And then they could bury him properly and lay his soul, and their anxieties, to rest. He had been loyal and loving and devoted his entire life. He deserved that much; he had been as much a part of the other samurai’s lives as Ohno’s, if not more so. 

It was already dark when they reached the back gate. Ohno wondered how he would tell Sho what they’d found in the woods, or even if he should. It seemed so cruel: it would get his hopes up to know that there were signs of people. And it would crush him to know that the trail was cold, there were no clues as to who had been there, and that they would not continue to search. But if he did not hear it from Ohno, it would surely be in Nagase’s next briefing.

He found Sho in one of the gardens, sitting on a stone bench, watching a pair of dragonflies flit across the surface of the moat. He wore light cotton trousers and a loose tunic in the last wave of summer heat. His hand lay limp across his lap while he cradled the gash on his upper arm with his other. 

“If you keep touching it, it will take longer to heal, you know,” Ohno said, partly in jest. Sho didn’t acknowledge him as he sat down on the bench.

"What is the point of this all, Satoshi-san?” Sho asked bitterly. “What is the point of being trained to wield a sword and then having it locked in a cupboard? How am I supposed to protect anyone?”

Ohno kept silent; he didn’t know how to respond to that question. 

“I know that I am in the service of Kimura-sama. It is my job to protect and serve the daimyo. It was my father’s job and now it’s mine. And I’m supposed to put him above everything else in my life. But I can’t.”

“What do you mean, Sho-kun?”

"How can you ask someone to do that? To put one shadowy figure of a man they barely know above the most important person in their life?”

Ohno hesitated and Sho turned to look at him, waiting for an answer. “You can’t,” he responded, shaking his head. 

"Do you remember what you told me before? If you had a choice?”

Ohno recalls vividly the words he said to Sho, standing in the hall after Sho’s brother-in-law’s death and the first sparks of trouble. _Lovers are special. Constant. Tangible._

“I know that Nino is more important to you than Kimura-sama is. And with him gone, there is no question of what you’re going to do. And there’s no reason not to. It’ll be eleven months before he comes back, if he ever does.”

Ohno took a deep breath and scrubbed his face with his hands. “I haven’t asked Kazu yet.”

“Do you really think he would say no? He must know; everyone is making plans. I’ve been hearing whispers all day, ever since the news came of another raid to the south. It was probably a different group that the one that came here; it happened before the attack on us. A town on the sea road was completely razed to the ground. There weren’t any survivors. The messenger only arrived today when you were out searching.”

“When I was away…” Ohno felt his stomach turn. Thinking of the damage and destruction that they had narrowly avoided and that which they hadn’t and it made him feel ill. He looked at his feet and brushed dirt from his trousers. He picked at the stray pine needles clinging to his sleeve. A maid ran along the covered walkway that edged the moat, her feet stomping loudly against the wood. 

“You must have found something because you won’t tell me,” Sho said in a quiet voice. “It’s okay; I’ve been preparing myself for the worst, against your advice. What did you find?”

“Nothing concrete—a few broken branches and crushed grass where it looks like people slept. We don’t know how many or when but no more than that. We couldn’t tell which way they went.”

“A dead end.”

Ohno winced at Sho’s choice of words. “We don’t know that—”

“It almost hurts less if I think he is. At least then I know where he is. It’s a place better than this.” 

The maid ran passed them again, back towards the castle’s main palace, with a medical box in her hands, followed closely by Nino. Sho and Ohno watched as they two hurried inside, talking in panicked tones to each other. Ohno was already walking across the grounds before Sho could stand.

They followed two other maids running down the hall to the main genkan carrying towels and a basin of hot water. The closer they got to the front entry, the more voices they heard, shouting over each other, calling for help and the doctor, which only made them and their hearts run faster.

"One of the farmers found him in his rice paddy.”

“Is he even breathing?”

“We need to get him into a bed.”

“Where is that doctor? We need him now!”

Jun was there at the front of it all, kneeling on the packed earth floor of the genkan, leaning over the crumpled form of a young man. He had no shoes and his skin was a canvas of colours from black and purple to yellow and red. The robe he was wearing used to be green, but was now ripped and torn, sliding off his shoulder to expose a birthmark. 

“Masaki!” 

Sho pushed through the crowd of people, not believing his ears. His hands were visibly shaking. He’d been preparing himself for the thought of finding Aiba’s body. He hadn’t thought about what he would do if they found him alive. “Is it really him?”

Jun’s eyes snapped up to Sho’s. “Get _away_ from him.” 

Ohno saw the raw fury in them too and already grabbed one of Sho’s wrists. Sho struggled against him, wanting to see, needing to believe that it was really Aiba curled up on the floor at his feet.

“This is family business.” Jun’s tone was dark, his anger barely contained. “This has nothing to do with you, Sakurai.” 

“Is it—Is he—?”

“Leave! _Now_.”

“Sakurai-san, please go.” Nino stepped up to him, begging him to go, pushing firmly against this chest. Ohno tugged on his arms, still careful of his injury. “We can’t help him with all these people here. We’ve got him back and I won’t let him die now.”

“…Jun-tan?”

His voice was frail and thin; he was a shadow of his normal bright self, but Aiba's voice still rang clearly in the genkan. Jun held his breath as Aiba curled his fingers loosely around the hand on his cheek.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sword is a [kaiken](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kaiken_\(dagger\)), that was given to samurai brides as a wedding gift. They would kept it in their obi to protect themselves or in the worst case scenario, commit suicide. These days, it's part of the traditional Japanese wedding outfit. The kanji for kai (懐) can mean pocket, feelings, heart, to yearn, to miss someone, to become attached to, bosom or breast. The pouch [looks like this](https://thumbs.worthpoint.com/zoom/images1/1/0716/11/japanese-tanto-kaiken-dirk-sword_1_a67a505692965d66c07cdf641ee3ce9b.jpg) and the brocade is something [like this](http://image.www.rakuten.co.jp/ohmiya/img10487291354.jpeg) but it's mostly made up. The Japanese words for carp and love have same pronunciation (koi). Just a reminder: genkan is the entryway, and kotatsu is a low table. A [Sakurai family crest](https://kamon.myoji-yurai.net/kamonDetail.htm?kamonName=%E4%B8%B8%E3%81%AB%E5%89%A3%E7%89%87%E5%96%B0).

Sho dreamed of tatami aged by years and secrets, warm beneath his hand in the long hours of the night. Lights danced outside, glowing dimly through the paper of the shoji, the chorus of revellers down by the riverbank muffled by the bamboo grove. It was a moment left behind by time as it crawled ever forward toward inevitability. He felt the weight of tomorrow on his chest as heavy as the head pillowed on his arm, as solid as the body curled into his. He spoke with his hands so as not to wake the other, hoping that the words in his heart translated into the touches he placed upon the golden skin beneath his fingers. The hand on his waist tightened, a long leg slid between his own and he felt the moist breath of a happy sigh on his neck in answer.

He dreamed that when morning came, his only companions were the consuming ache of loss and silence. No wind, no rustle of maple and pine, no thrum of cicadas or chirping of birds. He couldn’t even hear his own heartbeat though he felt it echo in his chest. He was alone with robes of two different patterns spread in waves across the floor, tangled inextricably in each other around his feet. He slipped into the green one, long shoots of bamboo climbing infinitely from the hem and secured it around his hips. He donned his geta and left the other robe behind, neatly folded and white, the design not yet decided. The other pair of shoes was always missing. 

He dreamt the same dream over and over, wandering through the empty streets of the Iwatsuki village. He would always pass the tailor, the dry-goods store and the confectioner. No one was ever open. It must be the day after a festival, he thought each time. He would catch fleeting glimpses of someone in the shadows and he tried to chase them but they were always just beyond his reach. He never knew for certain who it was but he knew who he hoped it would be. 

Each night after Aiba’s return to the castle Sho had the same dream. Each night, he would get closer to finding the person he was missing. He could never see their face but he knew who those lithe movements belonged to. Each time they eluded him, he woke with a gnawing emptiness in his stomach a little bit worse than the previous day. 

Aiba was in the castle but Sho could not see him. It was like smelling his favourite dish that his mother would always make for him and yet not be allowed to taste it. Jun had cordoned off the halls that lead to Aiba and Nino’s room and forbidden anyone who was not Nino, himself or the doctor to enter. Sho questioned Ohno for information but he would remain silent. Whether or not he knew—though how could he not when he shared a bed with one of Aiba’s nurses—he did not say. Sho recalled how reluctant Ohno had been to tell him about their findings in the forest and the vague possibilities that were implied; he could only assume that Ohno wanted to keep the truth to himself until the outcome was certain for Sho’s sake. There had been too much presumption and guessing already.

On the fourth day after Aiba’s return and one after a third messenger arrived with news of another village struck into the ground, Jun appeared in Sho’s chambers. Jun’s expression was guarded as he slid open the door and spoke in a pained, but not unfriendly, manner.

“He wants to see you. He’s only wanted to see you.”

Sho rose quickly from his seat at the kotatsu, wincing as he put weight on his hands, the skin of his wound tugging the wrong way. He stood in the middle of his room, looking into Jun’s face, seeing plainly what this errand was costing him.

“I never wanted it to turn out this way.”

“I know,” Jun replied defeated. “But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” He apologized for nothing in particular and yet everything: coming to Iwatsuki Castle, meeting Aiba, for what happened to him and inadvertently causing it, for falling in love but not realizing it soon enough. Jun did not respond, and somehow Sho never expected him to. 

He left his brush on the table, the ink in the well slowly drying. He took the unfinished letter to his mother and folded in neatly in thirds before opening the top drawer of the tansu chest. Then he followed Jun through the deserted halls towards the staff residence. Jun escorted him as far as the genkan and when Sho bent down to turn his geta towards the door, he was gone.

The halls were wide and cool, despite the heat of summer. They were lined with doors at regular intervals, all closed but for one at the south end of the building. It was only half closed and a soft sliver of light from within fell across the floor like an inverted shadow.

There were two futons pushed together, taking up most of the six-tatami-mat room. The shoji were closed to the veranda, cutting the late afternoon light. There was a basin of water on a short-legged frame with a damp towel folded over the rim and beside it a jar of salve that smelled strongly of mint, ginger and pine. One futon was empty, a blanket piled neatly at one end, and the other was full of the sleeping figure of Aiba Masaki. 

Sho knelt on the empty futon and gazed at the sleeper. With his hair falling softly around his face, curled up on his side, clutching the blankets loosely to his chest, he looked more like a boy of maybe eighteen than man in his twenty-fourth summer. The blankets were bunched up around his hips, his right foot peaking out from underneath. Sho felt his stomach twist as he gazed at Aiba’s face.

Underneath that long fringe, Sho could see the fading bloom of a bruise at the corner of his mouth and a long but shallow cut racing along side one of his eyebrows. His knuckles were scratched and a lingering desperate red, his elbow scuffed and scraped. One ankle was wrapped tightly in gauze bandage and still severely swollen, the bruise turning a sickly yellow; Sho hoped it was only a sprain and not broken. 

He sighed deeply, trying to release the tightness in his chest. He reached out his hand to brush the hair off Aiba’s face but stopped short: how could he even want to be touched by Sho after what he’d done? But the need to know, to feel, that Aiba was really there and alive made his fingertips itch. Instead, he moved his hand to clutch the edge of his blanket lightly; feeling the fabric grow taught under his touch as the sleeper inhaled and exhaled deeply was enough to set him at ease.

He sat like that, kneeling on the white coverlet of the spare futon, holding Aiba’s blanket between his fingers, listening to his breathing for a long time. 

“Why is Sho-san so sad?” 

Sho’s eyes snapped open—he didn’t remember closing them—and he touched his cheek. His fingers came away wet. Then he saw Aiba watching him, his expression nakedly open, with no malice in his face for anything and that struck Sho harder than anything. He tightened his grip on the blanket and finally felt a heavy tear spill from his eye.

“Because I’m a terrible person.”

Then he shifted his weight onto his knees and placed his hands on the futon in front of him, his fingertips brushing the folds of Aiba’s blanket and bowed, touching his forehead to the mattress. 

“I’m so sorry.” His voice was weak and muffled. There was a rustling of sheets and then Aiba’s hands on his shoulders, nudging him to sit up.

“Sho-san, please stop. You don’t have to do this.”

Aiba was close enough for Sho to smell the pine and ginger clinging to his skin. “Forgive me.”

“You haven’t done anything to need my forgiveness.” Hands cupped Sho’s cheeks—the same hands from his dream—and smoothed away the traces of tears with this thumbs.

“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have made you go. It was too dangerous and I knew it and you didn’t want to leave me—” Aiba pressed the pads of his fingers to Sho’s lips to hush his rambling.

“You did the right thing. The outcome wouldn’t have been any different. If I had stayed with you, it might have turned out worse. There were two of them waiting at the back gate and surprised me. I was knocked out and when I woke up, it was already dark. We were in the forest outside of the village. There were five of them around the campfire, all of them anxious and wondering where their companions were… they had never returned. They were worrying too much to watch me closely—they hadn’t even tied the ropes well. It was purely an accident that they attacked me: those two were just followers, wanting to make a good impression with the leader. They thought that they might be able to hold me for ransom.

“I slipped away before dawn when they were all asleep. I didn’t know where I was and got lost. But I kept going… I had nothing at all, not even my geta. It was dense forest where no one goes, there were no clear paths and the trees and bushes were wild. I fell a more than a few times.” At this he spread his hands and turned them over to show the tiny scratches on his palms from the ground. Sho ran his fingers over them, the fine texture of the scabs strange against the smoothness of Aiba’s skin.

“I walked for a whole day in the wrong direction, away from the castle. I wanted to put as much distance between me and them as I could. When they realized I was missing, I think they would have assumed I’d gone back to the village. I didn’t want them to find me again. I circled back but I hadn’t eaten anything since the festival so it took me longer to reach the village than it should have. No one saw me, and I saw no one. I tripped on a root at the edge of the eastern woods and twisted my ankle severely… I made it as far as the outlying rice fields. I could finally see the castle again and I wanted to keep going but I was so tired…" Aiba took a deep breath when he’d finished his story. He kept his eyes down, looking at Sho’s hands.

Sho reached out and wrapped his arms around Aiba’s shoulders. There was nothing he could say because he would have done the same.

“I had to come home; it wasn’t a choice I had to make. I had to come back to you, Sho-san. I knew you’d be waiting for me, like you promised.”

Aiba felt smaller than he did seven days ago—was it only seven days since that night? It was awkward like that, Sho on his knees and Aiba sitting loosely cross-legged but he never wanted to let go. “I was so scared… that I’d never find you.”

“I heard you were very brave.”

Sho sat back on his heels to look at Aiba’s face. “Who told you?”

“Jun did. He also said you must be suffering from a mental illness for going into a fight without a proper weapon. He’s surprised you didn’t get yourself killed. That guy had a real sword! But, you saved someone; because of you, Yamashita-san and his sister are safe. You did a good thing.”

“But they weren’t the ones I should have protected.” Sho couldn’t look Aiba in the eye as he said this. 

Aiba leaned forward, returning to his embrace and kissed him. Sho could taste his reply in the kiss, the understanding and sincere apology bittersweet on his tongue. _It’s over now, it’s in the past. I’m sorry; I forgive you._

He pressed his lips to Aiba’s forehead and murmured into his skin, "I want to give you something." 

Sho reached into his sleeve and pulled out a narrow pouch of dark blue brocade, embroidered with an intricate pattern of water, carp and fallen flowers in silver and red. Aiba untied the tasselled cords and unfolded the end; a short sword slid out into his hand.

The handle and scabbard were smooth and lacquered, dark with a light grain. The blade was long as the span of his hand from thumb to little finger, mirrored and curved to a point. The handle was slightly shorter and fit perfectly in his hand; at the end was the crest of the Sakurai family in embossed in silver: five heart-shaped petals within a circle. 

“It was my mother's,” Sho explained. “She gave it to me after my father passed away. She told me to keep it until I find someone who I love as much as my father loved her."

"Sho-san, I can't take this. It means too much," Aiba protested.

"But that's why I want you to have it, Masaki. I should have realized much sooner… If I had, maybe none of this would have happened." 

Aiba looked uncomfortable, clutching the dagger and its pouch tightly with both hands. He fingered one of the fish, tracing the stream it swam in. “But, I don’t have anything to give you. Nothing like this,” he said quietly after a while.

“You don’t have to give me anything. I just want to know that you’re safe.”

“But I want to,” Aiba looked up from his hands and his eyes were bright, heady with emotion. “I want to show you…” and kissed Sho for the second time that evening. Where there had been sweetness and gentleness before, there was now heat and eagerness. He set the dagger aside and laced his fingers with Sho’s, pulling their bodies closer. 

“Masaki, you’re still injured,” Sho objected weakly. “I don’t want to hurt you; Jun would—”

“Jun has nothing to do with you and me.”

“But your ankle, it’s not—”

“Then be gentle,” Aiba spoke against Sho’s lips.

Aiba cupped the back of Sho’s neck and leaned back onto his futon. Sho took extra care to arrange himself around Aiba’s body while the other kept one hand on him constantly as a reassurance that it wasn’t a dream: on his arm, on his chest, his back, his hip. Aiba kissed him again, threading his fingers through Sho’s hair, his lips warm and the softest velvet inside. They said, _I’m here now, I’m alright. Stay with me._

Sho traveled the paths he’d learned the week before, cautiously, ardently, as Aiba lay spread beneath him. It was like the first time again; he watched the expressions of Aiba’s face change with each caress of his golden skin, and Sho took his time to remember each one. When he kissed along his jaw and down his throat, Aiba closed his eyes and caught his bottom lip in his teeth. If he drew his fingers up the back of Aiba’s thigh, his lips would curl at their edges like old paper. When he reached between them and swept his thumb through the collection of pearls there, Aiba gasped and his cheeks flushed the colour of sunset. Sho thought that might be his new favourite colour.

Sho recalled his dream and he drew words on Aiba’s shoulder causing the hands on his waist to hold him tighter, a long leg to slide along his own and hips to roll upwards in a slow wave in answer. Aiba reached above his head for something to anchor himself to and his hand connected with the water basin blindly. They both stopped breathing while it teetered and wobbled before dissolving into giggles when it settled, the only damage a few errant drops on the tatami. 

“I want to show you…” Aiba moaned into his ear; the coolness of his breath against the warmth of Sho’s skin caused him to shiver.

“You are,” he whispered into Aiba’s hair.

“Not enough,” and Aiba gripped with his knees and lifted his hips, rubbing slick skin to skin. He found perfect hand-holds on Sho’s shoulder blades and thrust again, aching to feel for more, his voice high and porcelain. 

With Aiba’s knees over his elbows, pinning him securely to the mattress, Sho looked down at the man beneath him, nude and wanton, breathing uneven and flushed. His unguarded face was beautiful as he watched Sho push forward, deeper, closer. He closed his eyes and leaned into Sho’s touch as he brushed his hair aside and followed the angry red line across his forehead. 

They moved in tandem, rocking into and against each other, forward and back, in and out, fast and slow. Sho came first, stuttering, overwhelmed by everything: the stickiness of their skins, the faint scent of pine, Aiba’s short cries that punctuated the end of his thrusts, the tightness inside. Aiba followed soon after, moans and whimpers coming freely from his lips, as Sho pressed close, mouthing the words he couldn’t quite say into his chest, the tatami flaxen in the fading twilight and warm to the touch underneath them.


	12. Chapter 12

Aiba dreamt of fingers gentle on his skin, perfumed with ginger and mint, carefully brushing hair away from his face. The cool breath of fall was coming; he nestled closer to the warm body beneath the blankets, lacing ankles and fingers together. The flavor left on his tongue was sweet. Whispered sighs in his ears tangled with the wind rustling the maple trees in the southern garden. He stirred and the young samurai was looking upon him with a soft expression, disarmed and at peace, with his hair curling gently around his ears.  
  
Aiba dreamed they were lying side by side in one futon; he mapped the contours of Sho's hands with his own like he didn't already know them while the other's gaze was like a caress on his cheek. A flutter of movement outside the shoji doors caught Sho's attention, his eyes following the intricate dance of something drifting.   
  
_Look,_ he murmured, nudging Aiba gently with a hand on his waist. Aiba turned in his arms to see the maple outside his room shimmering, bright with sanguine, titian and amber. _They're falling._

It started with one leaf and then two; caught on something neither man could see, chasing each other on the breeze. Three, four, six, a dozen more filled the air, eight dozen, a hundred and two creating a thin golden haze. The leaves landed on the weathered boards of the veranda and echoed in the quiet room, one by one, reverberating deep through the wood and paper, hammering out a rhythm that Aiba had never heard before.

They struck the veranda constantly, heavy and hollow—much too loud for mere dying leaves. The timbre was anxious and erratic; his heart tried to match it but it couldn’t keep up. This wasn’t right.

“Wake up, Masaki.” Sho’s voice had the same edge as the leaves, worried and afraid—but of what? It was the way of things for leaves to die and paint the gardens with their fading colours when summer’s end came. 

“Masaki, please wake up,” Sho pleaded, as he shook Aiba to waking. “Something’s happened.”

The room was dark, the sun set and the last tendrils of roseate and orchid bled into the horizon hours ago. The maple outside the window was still green and lush, the garden swept clean; but the still drumming continued. 

“What’s going on,” Aiba muttered, still caught in the threads of his dream. 

“They’re opening the gates,” Sho replied. “Something is wrong.”

The unsteady beat of the taiko drum rang through the castle from the turrets as the Black Gate was opened again. It wasn’t supposed to be reopened until sunrise. Voices carried across the grounds, clear through the drum beat when it faltered, shouting; but Aiba couldn’t make out the words. The sounds of bare feet thudding on the floors underscored everything as people were sent to relay messages to the inhabitants of Iwatsuki castle.

***

Nagase had been assassinated. 

It had been Nagase's turn to lead the patrol, circling the town and farmlands, watching the hilly horizon for incoming messengers or threats. No one had expected the attackers to come from the village at the bottom of the valley, the only other civilization visible from the tower of Iwatsuki’s keep. It was a farming hamlet smaller than Iwatsuki, which shared the same fishing spots on the river. Many of its people were friends and relatives; it too was under the care of Kimura’s sword. No one had expected an attack to be so close and so familiar. 

Nagase, Yamaguchi and six of the soldiers stationed at the castle were out amongst the rice paddies that climbed the gentle slopes of the valley. The sun was low on the horizon, drowsy and tired, when they reached the last field. While Nagase was discussing the potential yield of the crops for next season with the farmer, Yamaguchi was inside greeting his kind wife. She had taken to packing some fresh steamed bread for the ride back to the castle with a pinch of his cheek because they all looked so thin. It was the least she could offer, after all their hard work to protect the village, she’d said. He was sat at their warm hearth with a cup of barley tea, cool under his fingers, when the first arrows sailed silently through the air. He only heard the surprised and anguished shouts of the husband, and the clatter of armor and weaponry falling heavily onto the hard packed earth.

The soldiers too fell where arrows pierced their bodies; bright speckled fletching wavering lightly in the gentle afternoon breeze where the arrows stood proudly from their targets. The attack was invisible and inaudible, like the plague that crept upon elders and claimed their lives before daybreak. No soldier had seen them coming and no one could react fast enough to save his comrades before he was killed too. When Yamaguchi reached Nagase, his commander’s eyes were dull and unseeing and his body crumpled on the ground like soiled bedclothes where he had fallen from the saddle. The horse was gone, bolted at the smell of blood and death and the pitch of her rider’s body. Hoof tracks tore up the otherwise neat path between the paddies.

Yamaguchi had sent the farmer inside to his wife and scanned the bordering forest futilely. He knew the danger had already passed; he stood alone, an easy target in the empty fields, and no arrows cut across the sky to lodge themselves deep into his back. 

The assassins were gone.

He gathered Nagase’s body in his arms and strapped him across the back of his horse, in front of the saddle, before mounting. He passed the other fallen soldiers as he flicked the reigns but lacked the snap to spur the horse into a slow gallop. He couldn’t carry three, four, five bodies on his only steed; he would have to send someone back for them. The chain of command had fallen to him and he had no idea what to do. His officer, his friend, nearly a brother, was still warm against his legs and the flanks of the horse. Blood continued to pour from the wounds, running down the legs of the animal, dripping from fingertips as Yamaguchi returned to the castle.

He rode through the gates during the second watch with the body limply hanging across the shoulders of his horse, the armor unmistakably Nagase’s, even in the pale moonlight. His face was dark, his eyes guarded. He slid his commander off the steed with reverence only matched by the high priests when they handled sacred treasures. His knees buckled under the weight, collapsing on the dusty ground of the outer courtyard, and he clutched the ties on the front of Nagase’s armor loosely.

***

There was no wake and no funeral for the fallen on Yamaguchi’s orders; public mourning of the daimyo’s first-in-command would be an open invitation for raiders to attack. The bodies were transported to the secluded temple on the banks of the river and rites were performed by the small number of priests there. The ashes were sealed in simple porcelain urns with a painted lotus flower on the lid and sent to the families with letters of condolence. Their names were written on unadorned pine planks in thick ink by the priests, to be housed in the castle’s altar with the ancestors of the daimyo. 

Sho found Aiba in the library, his brow creased in concentration and his fingers smudged with ink, recording the eulogy Yamaguchi had written for his friend—not his commanding officer or superior in rank, but the crass man with a gentle soul he had known for years. Nagase had been a member of Kimura's service the longest of all and deserved to be revered in Iwatsuki’s records.

Pulling a cushion from the closet, Sho sat on the other side of the low table and watched Aiba fill the last page with delicate writing. He pressed his seal firmly down on the corner of the page, marking it with cinnabar ink, and set it aside before raising his eyes to Sho's. Sho took a deep breath and paused to notice the way Aiba's hair turned a rich cocoa in such light and the way it fell against his cheekbones.

“Have you offered your prayers get?”

Aiba shook his head, “Not yet.”

Aiba watched Sho purse his lips, looking in the corners of the room and out the window to avoid meeting his eyes. 

“Sho-san?" He had never seen Sho so anxious before. 

“Yamaguchi-san called a meeting this morning. We’ve received messages from the closest castle towns and none have the resources to send any men to our aid. We can only rely on the strength we have left. You know as well as I that it’s only a matter of time.” _Before Iwatsuki falls too._

“What are we going to do now?” Aiba asked, failing to keep slight panic from edging his lilt.   
  
“He said if we want to leave, he won't stop anyone. If we want to return to our families, we are free to go. He will stay with anyone else who is willing. Ohno-san is leaving. I knew he would go whether we were relieved of duty or not, if he had the chance. His heart isn’t in it.”

“And Nino will go with him,” Aiba added with a watery smile. 

“You know him well.”

Aiba just nodded. He was silent for a long moment, staring at the swirls of the wood grain on the tabletop before adding hesitantly, “And what will you do, Sho-san?”

“I want to make sure that my mother and brother are safe. And my sister... and niece or nephew. I want to make sure everyone I care about is safe.” The thought of Sho leaving to never come back made Aiba's heart thunder in his chest. 

“And I want you to come with me,” Sho finished. 

Aiba couldn’t take another breath—he shifted anxiously in his seat, knocking his elbow on the table and causing his brush to roll across the surface. “Oh, how I want to…” 

In the few weeks since the raid on the village, Aiba had become attuned to the samurai, feeling his eyes like touches on his skin all the time. Aiba found it harder to sleep alone after each night together; he wanted to ask Nino if this was how he felt about Ohno. Jun was also ever-present, watching with one eye while he tried to keep the castle from falling apart. Aiba could see it was wearing him thin. When there was no more work to be done, he sought Aiba for company, even if they sat in silence and watched the leaves twist in the breeze. 

“But I can’t. If I leave too, Jun will be alone. He’s barely handling this by himself. You want to keep your family safe and I should do the same for mine. I’m part of his house and it’s my duty to stay.”

“And what about Nino? Why doesn’t Nino stay?”

Aiba opened his mouth in reply but had nothing to say. He knew how much Ohno had gotten under Nino's skin—he and Jun had been the ones who gave him the final push. They never talked about it but they knew from experience that no samurai stayed at the castle forever. He might be sent away on some task for Kimura or conscripted by the Imperial guard in Kyoto; the risk of being killed in battle was frighteningly high. Aiba had seen Nino's expression darken more often over the last few weeks and Aiba knew the content of his thoughts because they were the same as his own.

“A surprisingly wise man once said something to me,” Sho began quietly, moving to the other side of the table, like the first time they met in the library. “He said that regardless of blood or choice, family is family; that's a bond that will take a lot more than distance to break. But someone you love—more than that, one who loves you, who _chose_ you... he'd want to protect you with his entire being. He would do anything to keep you safe. He would gladly be without title or obligation to be happy.”

Aiba's throat burned as he fought against the urge to cry. That's all he wanted for everyone: to be happy. Chasing fireflies in the gardens and hiding mice in the maids’ quarters with Nino and Jun. Seeing Ohno watch Nino play the shamisen on their veranda. Dirtying his fingers as Sho leaned close and taught him the stroke order to a new character. 

“I'm asking you,” Sho continued, “to come with me. I promised myself that I would do everything I can to keep you from getting hurt again but I can't do that here. There is nothing anyone can do. I know how important they are to you. Jun and Nino will always be your family, wherever you are. That isn't going to change.”

Aiba was startled as Sho swept away the tears that had escaped, not expecting the touch on his face. Sho's fingers were gentle and restrained, wanting to tuck Aiba's hair behind his ears but refraining. "I want you to be with me but I won't force you to come.”

***

Sho did not go to Aiba's room that night or the next. He had left Aiba in the library with a lingering kiss on the brow and a head muddled with thoughts. Aiba's heart hurt thinking about having to choose between love and loyalty. He was indebted to Jun's father for taking him from the life his parents led. How could he repay that kindness by leaving? And what would he do outside the castle? He had no skills; he had neither craft nor trade. Only the richest households in the capital had need for servants and maids.   
  
There was a soft knock at the door before it slid open. He didn't need a candle to see the slight stature of his friend to know that it was Nino.   
  
"It's late; shouldn't you be sleeping, Kazu?"  
  
"I should say the same to you, Masaki," Nino replied with no bite to his words.  
  
Aiba sat up and pulled the blankets into his lap. Nino left the door ajar and joined Aiba on the end of his futon.   
  
"I've come to say good-bye," Nino said, frank as always. "We're leaving tonight."  
  
"I didn't think you would."  
  
"If you start weeping then I'll leave without.” Nino’s tone was mostly joking.  
  
"I'll try,” Aiba promised. “Where do you think you’ll go?"  
  
"South. Satoshi thinks we should let things settle a little before we decide where to go. We're going to see my parents. Can you believe, of all things, I'm most scared of seeing them again?"  
  
Aiba chuckled quietly in the dark, "They'll be happy to see you."  
  
"I wonder if they will remember what a brat I was."  
  
"You still are," Aiba corrected. 

Nino shoved his shoulder in retort but it lacked the malice it might have had any other time. “Still am.” 

Aiba knew he was pretending it didn’t hurt to leave. “What are you going to do out there? For money?”

“Nagase always said I was a decent musician, maybe I would play for coin. Satoshi could sing.”

“If you’re really good, maybe they’ll summon you to the Imperial court to play for the Emperor.”

Nino chuckled at the thought. “I wish for your happiness, Masaki. It’s all I’ve ever wanted for you; there were so many times I wished I could have given it to you myself or even shared mine. But that isn’t fair.”

“You did make me happy, you and Jun. I have no regrets.”

"You might. It’s different… when I’m with Satoshi. It’s so hard to put into words. But I am so scared of losing that feeling and never finding it again.” Nino picked at the threads of his blanket, turning his face from the light to hide the look on his face, a moment of silence filling the space between them.

“Tell Ohno-san good-bye for me. And take good care of him.”   
  
"I won't forget you, okay?" Nino said after a beat, reaching out to give Aiba's hand a tight squeeze. "Try and stay in one piece. Write to me once in a while."  
  
"I will," Aiba replied to nothing in particular, his voice wavering.  
  
"I told you not to cry!" Nino scolded, pulling Aiba into a hug.   
  
Aiba took a few deep breaths before saying, "I'm going to miss you."  
  
"I know. Me too."

They fell silent, clinging to each other for the last time. Aiba inhaled the scent of Nino’s hair and memorized the way his petite frame felt in his arms, thinking how much they had grown up. It felt like not so long ago that they had been six and seven and Nino was showing him where the best places to find beetles were and how to avoid whippings from their tutor. There was still so much Nino had to teach him. Nino’s small hands were fisted in his shirt, wrinkling the light fabric with the strength of their grasp.

They were still embracing when Ohno came to the door. Aiba saw him in the hall, outside the room he’d shared with Nino for seventeen years, looking awkward like he had walked in on an extremely private moment. "Kazu, we should go before the watch changes."   
  
"Okay, I'll be there in a moment." Nino tightened his arms and whispered into Aiba’s ear, "I _will_ see you again."   
  
Then Ohno was gone; and Nino with him.

***

Aiba fell into a light doze after Nino and Ohno’s departure, his heart exhausted from aching. The whisper of the door sliding closed woke him. He heard the crunch of worn tatami under feet and the rustle of his sheets being sat upon. It wasn’t Sho because Sho would have crawled under the blankets and fitted his body around Aiba’s and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. There was only one other person who would come into his room in the middle of the night.

“Would you be happy here without Sakurai-san?”

Aiba stared at the woodwork of the ceiling and sighed. He had been asking himself the same question all night. “I would learn to be.”

“And what if you didn’t?” Aiba answered with silence. Jun nudged him with a foot to move over and stretched out beside him. “Do you know why it was so easy for Nino to leave?”

“I didn’t ask him because I’m afraid of the answer.”

“It’s not because he didn’t love you or me or because he didn’t feel at home. He was younger than you were when you came here; he doesn’t remember what his life before this was like. This is his home. It was so easy for him to leave because he knows that this is all… temporary. You see it; the walls are crumbling around us. Kimura-sama is gone and there’ll be nothing for him to come back to. What’s solid one day could easily be gone the next.

“He knows there is something more real than this out there. Something he can get through his own hard work and hold on to with his two hands. Ohno-san was just the catalyst, the vehicle for him to leave. It would have happened sooner or later.

“Let me ask you one thing,” Jun said, turning on his side to look at Aiba’s face. “If there was no hierarchy, no bushido, nothing tying you to Iwatsuki castle, would you still be so reluctant to leave?”

“If I was completely free to choose…” Aiba took a deep breath and held it. “But you—”

“Don’t think about me. You have the choice to go and be with someone who loves you, to be free and happy. To do whatever you want! I don’t have that luxury. Even if I did choose to throw away all the teaching my father shoved down my throat, I don’t have anywhere I want to go or anyone I want to be with. There’s no place better for me right now than here but maybe one day, I’ll find it.” Aiba waited as Jun paused to breathe, sure he wasn’t quite finished.

“Do you want to go with him?”

Aiba shut his eyes tight and his answer came out in a hushed breath: “Yes.”

Jun sat up and took a deep breath, then reached for something on the sideboard beside the candle. He pulled a large book into his lap, bound in leather with a pine crest on the front.

“You think you’re doing me a favour by staying, like you owe the Matsumoto name something. You don’t. I’ll be fine without you and Nino and if we survive this, you’ll always be welcome to visit.”

“What are you saying?” Aiba was confused; Jun was talking like he’d already left.

“Do you know what this is?” Jun continued. 

“No.”

“It’s the Matsumoto family registry. Everyone who has ever been born or adopted into the name is recorded in here.” Jun opened the cover and flipped through the pages, the words blurring in the candlelight. He found the latest entrant and flipped back a page—twenty-three years—and there was Jun’s name and his birth date. Following his name were Nino’s and Aiba’s names, one after the other, and the dates they had been adopted. 

"All the people who have left our family are marked here as well.” Through each of their names was a thick line of black ink. 

"My choice is to set you free, Masaki. It’s your turn to make yours.”


	13. Epilogue

_Dear Kazu,_

_It is near the first day of summer; I know you are getting along well._

_It’s been two full moons since I wrote, I’m sorry. Spring was a busy season for us. Sho’s mother had the two of us to clear out the attic and patch the roof where a tree branch had fallen after the snow melted. The old master from the school also decided to retire and asked Sho if he wouldn’t like to teach in his place. He’s been spending all of his free time in his father’s study leafing through books, preparing for lessons. His brother is one of his students—which is both a relief and a burden. He doesn’t want to disappoint or embarrass him._

_I’ve been helping Sho’s mother and sister, who has moved back home. Her mother-in-law passed away and she didn’t want to stay. Her daughter is the cutest thing; it’s nice having children around the house. I heard mention of you in town the other day. You are really becoming famous! They were some travelers from the southern coast and spoke highly of your compositions. It won’t be long before Kimura-sama comes to find you to bring you back to play for him, I’m sure._

_I received a letter from Jun not so long ago. Kimura-sama has returned from Kyoto and brought a whole new retinue with him. There are several dozen samurai in the valley now and everyone is feeling better for it, though it’s been peaceful since winter. He even brought his new wife. After all the chaos last summer, I guess he felt the need to start trying for a son. Better late than never, I suppose. Yamaguchi returned from his pilgrimage and said Fuji-san is more beautiful than the paintings. I would like to see that for myself one day._

_Did Jun tell you? He’s decided to get married. She’s the daughter of one of Matsumoto-san’s friends. He says she’s nice and pretty and won’t stand for his temper so I think she will balance him out nicely. He says she loves him. They will have the ceremony in the fall; do you think you’ll be able to make it? I want to congratulate him in person. He deserves this._

_Sho gives his best. Tell Ohno-san hello. How is the farm? Do you think you’ll get a good yield this season? After the harvest, you and Ohno-san should come visit us. Sho would like to see you both as well._

_As always, I pray for your health and happiness._

_Love,_ _Masaki_

_The End  
~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first and last lines of the letter are loose translations of some seasonal greetings (for the month of May) used in Japanese. They sound kind of weird and stilted in English but what can you do, it's really formal Japanese and it doesn't quite translate into English.
> 
> 立夏の候、皆様お元気にお過ごしと存じます。 Rikka no sousou, mina-sama ogenki ni osugoshi to zonjimasu.  
> The season of the first day of summer, I know everyone is getting along healthily/well.  
> 末筆ながら、皆様のご健康とご多幸をお祈り申し上げます。 Mappitsu nagara, mina-sama no gokenkou to gotakou wo oinori moushi agemasu.  
> (Letter closing phrase expressing regret for delay), I am wishing everyone's health and great happiness.


End file.
